


The Things They Carried

by deanlovescastielswormstache



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, F/M, Feels, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlovescastielswormstache/pseuds/deanlovescastielswormstache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire knew he was fucked up. Which is why he doesn't find it all that surprising that he is an abusive relationship. He knows it's abusive, but he doesn't see any way out of it. Until he meets Enjolras, which launches him on the painfully slow journey to self acceptance and even eventual love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. God Among Men

Grantaire knew he was messed up. It wasn't a secret. Just his childhood would take years of counseling for him to be even close to normal. Between the abusive father, the homelessness after said father had found out that Grantaire liked boys as well as girls, the criminals that had used him when he was just fifteen and fresh faced for their own means without a care for Grantaire’s well-being, he was either a psychologists nightmare or their wet dream. Perhaps that was why he had rushed headlong into things with Pierre, believing that he had found the first good thing in his life. Pierre had seemed like a dream when Grantaire had met him, polished, well-educated, self-confident but not too perfect. Grantaire learned that Pierre also had lost contact with his parents after he came out to them. He didn’t seem to mind that Grantaire had a few too many glasses of wine often, that he had bouts of melancholia, that he was belligerent, that he only had a G.E.D. and was talented with a knife in ways that should be disturbing for anyone, let alone a twenty year old boy. Pierre knew about panic attacks and how to handle them. But most importantly, and later he learned this was also the reason Pierre had stayed, he tolerated Grantaire’s innate self loathing that he persisted like a dog with a bone. Grantaire had just become an adult, had just gotten himself out of the streets and enrolled in college. Pierre was a normal person blessed with abilities that Grantaire benefitted from, and he let himself be tugged into the relationship. Life was not shiny and new, but he had a seed of hope in his chest that seemed to take root as he learned more about Pierre. It wasn’t long before they had moved in together and pooled their meager finances. 

 

Grantaire wasn't in love, and he knew it. But he had little proof that love actually existed; in his short life, he had seen too much apathy and hate to account for love. His father abused his mother, there was little love lost between his parents. He had never felt love as a child and hardly expected to now or even in the future. Sometimes he wondered if he was broken, if he had lost the ability to love, or if had just been born that way. Make no mistake, he liked Pierre and their sex was great, but he knew that this wasn't love. He said the words, _I love you_ , often enough, trying to make them true through repetition, but to no avail. Nothing stirred on his heart, which had been left untouched for too long. Pierre said the words too, but sometimes Grantaire doubted their sincerity as well. Grantaire knew it wasn't love, knew it wasn't healthy, but truly could not see himself finding anyone else that could understand him so well, who could look into his eyes and see the beginnings of a panic attack, who knew when he should hide the razors, who knew what days called for homemade soup and movies. Pierre saw all of Grantaire's flaws and that was already enough pain and humiliation for Grantaire. He knew that he carried emotional baggage, enough for three people, and no one wanted that in a relationship. So he stayed, because he needed someone, and Pierre was his only option. Grantaire wasn't happy, but he was far away from the life of his past, and that's all he truly wanted.

 

It wasn’t until two years into their relationship, that Grantaire received his first blow, that he realized the universe was truly fucked. The world had gradually regained its tarnished appearance around its worn and ragged edges. Looking back, he saw the verbal abuse that he had withstood daily, resulting in his subsequent failure in college and his humble retreat to working as a barista. As he washed his stinging face with cold water, attempting to control his breathing and steady the shaking of his hands on the faucet, he met his eyes in the mirror. They were watery and bloodshot, but beneath the surface he saw his internal weariness, and even deeper, his resignation to his new life. He knew in that moment, stomach dropping, that he was lost. He could see no way out; he didn’t particularly care to. Pierre had apologized profusely and bought him flowers after a dinner at a new restaurant in town that Grantaire hated, but Pierre deemed acceptable because of its high prices. That night, Pierre had been tender and loving, but Grantaire knew. His father had been an abusive, he knew exactly how the cycles of abuse worked. He understood that these periods would become shorter and shorter until he would have no reprieve at all.

 

It was in the first interim that Grantaire first laid eyes on Enjolras. They were loosely introduced via friend of a friend, but Grantaire had caught sight of him weeks before that happy event. He had come into the cafe where he worked, had ordered coffee and left. Grantaire hadn’t been at the counter when this apparition ordered coffee. He was conflicted about this: on the one hand, he would never see the man again, would never hear his voice or gaze into his eyes, on the other, if he had the opportunity to gaze into the man’s eyes, he would have surely forgotten how function. For the first time in years, his fingers itched with the desire to pick up a paintbrush, to brush those golden curls on to a canvas, to reimagine this divine being that appeared to have stepped out of one of Michelangelo’s paintings, with marble skin and soft curls. The itch started in his fingers and made its way towards his chest, a sickeningly rapid journey that left his body on fire and a troubling ache in his chest as the itch persisted. In that moment, Grantaire knew that his situation had just sucked him in too deep; he was in over his head.

 

Pierre was quiet that night. That was to be expected. They were still recovering from the blow that Grantaire had received and Pierre was tiptoeing around Grantaire; he had a higher chance of keeping Grantaire forever if he lengthened the period between the first two blows as long as he could. Normally, Grantaire would enjoy the silence, less negative comments about his cooking and his hair and no slight digs on his exercise schedule. Tonight, it allowed his mind to wander to the mysterious man in the cafe earlier. He didn’t want to think of him in front of Pierre. Not only did he run the risk of Pierre discovering his rather embarrassing devotion to a man he had only seen, Grantaire did not want to contaminate this man by comparing him to Pierre, by bringing Pierre closer to this man who could have hung the heavens. Grantaire’s teeth were on edge, and his shoulders taught with tension. Each scrape of silverware and exhale of breath from Pierre heightened his terrified heartbeat and put yet another brick of distrustfulness on his defenses. By the end of the night, he was glad to have the excuse to go to bed, to escape Pierre’s inquisitive gaze. As he lay next to Pierre, he deepened his breathing, pretending to sleep beside this man that was a stranger to him. He didn’t dare move, afraid that Pierre would find his actions suspicious and tear the truth out of Grantaire. The next morning he got up. He hadn’t slept a wink, yet he never remembered feeling so alive.

 

The weeks passed and Grantaire saw him twice more. He didn’t speak to him either time, though he witnessed the attempted flirtations by the barista and the curt replies in a voice that wasn’t as deep as he expected, but contained its own lilt and unique phrasing that so pleased the ear, that one wished that he would never cease talking. Of course, his phrases were usually about his coffee order and the weather, but to Grantaire they could have been exhortations on umbrellas and he would find it the most fascinating thing he had ever heard. Grantaire resigned himself to the hopeless odds ahead of him. This man was surely already taken, probably not even interested in men, and he only came for coffee once every few weeks. The odds were that they would eventually have a conversation, but that it would be about his order and nothing more. This was perhaps the cruelest scenario that Grantaire could see Fate pulling on him because he would inevitably read into ever gesture and nuance of the conversation and it would leave him broadsided and dazed. Yet he resigned himself to the fact that the odds pointed to an interaction between the two, and soon. 

 

At home, things were still running smoothly. Pierre was as gentle as ever in the weeks after the initial blow. Grantaire began to relax in his presence. He knew it would happen again, knew that he should be running far from Pierre, but he had no other life besides him. He didn’t have many friends- Bahorel, with whom he went to the gym, Bossuet, who was extremely unlucky and therefore was a fine companion to him, and Joly, who had been introduced to him via Bossuet and who always fussed over Grantaire despite his health. He couldn’t ask them to give up their lives to take care of him as he recovered, couldn’t burden them with Pierre’s wrath. Besides, things were going well, they truly were. Pierre had actually complimented his cooking the other night and things were normal again. The tension in Grantaire’s muscles eased and he found himself laughing with Bahorel in a way that he hadn’t been free to do in weeks after a particularly grueling boxing session. 

 

The next day he found himself whistling as he wiped off the counter during a lull in customers. The bell tinkled and a gust of chilly air entered the shop; a shiver worked its way down Grantaire’s spine. “Be right with you,” he called, heading back to put the rag in the back room and turned to see the lonely customer standing at the counter. It was Apollo. Of course, Grantaire knew that it wasn’t truly Apollo, but as he didn’t know his name he had taken to calling him Apollo in his head. He was wearing a blazing red pea coat and tight skinny jeans, that Grantaire immediately tore his eyes from because ogling the customers was not only against the rules, it was highly embarrassing to both parties. And Grantaire was not embarrassing. He was smooth. Even if those golden curls looked soft to touch, he would be able to hold intelligent conversation. Grantaire gathered himself and straightened his spine, making his way to the counter. The man locked eyes with him and Grantaire’s breath hitched. He had known, of course, that his eyes were a cerulean blue, had seen that before, but he had never had them meet his. Grantaire didn’t think he had ever been under such an intense focus and the thought of what this man was seeing made his hands tremble slightly. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and he couldn’t even remember if he brushed his hair, and he was sure that his tattoo was peeking out from this t-shirt; it had shorter sleeves than the ones he usually wore to work. He made it to the counter by some miracle and managed to sound vaguely normal when he said “How can I help you?”

 

“I’d like an espresso with two extra shots, please.” Grantaire already knew that was his order, but he could hardly admit to that without seriously creeping this guy out. So instead, he lifted a single eyebrow as he looked the man over. Which was a mistake, because his mouth went dry at the delicately sculpted collarbone that peeked out at him from underneath the also tight v-neck shirt.

 

“Two extra shots? Not sleeping well?” Of course, Grantaire had to go put his foot in his mouth by asking personal health questions to this god descended to earth in what was likely to be their only conversation. Mentally, Grantaire kicked himself, tearing his eyes from the collarbone to the man's face, which could have actually made the situation worse. _How was it humanly possible to have such sculpted cheekbones?_

 

“No, actually, I just have a lot to do.” His tone was brisk, but he didn’t seem as curt as he had with the other baristas. Grantaire detected a slight wrinkling of his eyes and was slightly encouraged. Of course, Grantaire countered internally, Grantaire would take any kind of neutral action from this man to be affection, he was that far gone. He tried to take deep breaths through his nose, hoping that the blonde would not notice he was close to passing out from hyperventilation. Now would be the worst time for a panic attack.

 

“Really? Saving the world? Hanging the stars, Apollo? How very noble of you.” Grantaire grinned, because if he was going to fuck this up, he was going to do it royally, so that there was no chance of it coming back to haunt him later. He watched a flash of irritation cross the blonde's face. Apparently, he had hit a sore spot. Grantaire wasn't sure what exactly about his statement had made the other man squirm, but it was a rather enjoyable show to watch. He could almost see him squirming beneath him as he put his tongue-Grantaire flushed.

 

“Just because I run a far left social justice group doesn’t mean I plan on saving the world. The idea that one person has to save the world is inherently damaging to society because they don’t understand the power that the people hold, and they are therefore exploited-wait what did you call me?” He looked as if he had received cold water to the face. It was clear that he had gone on this impromptu speech several times before, he had it down by rote. Apparently, he wasn't used to nicknames, at least from strangers.

 

“Apollo.” Grantaire answered, leaning his hip against the counter. He was rather enjoying getting reactions out of this man, it was like drawing a wild card. One never knew what the result would be. It was also distracting him from how much he needed to sit, to escape, to get some alcohol into his system. “Why?”

 

“Why would you call me that?” The man’s face was genuinely befuddled now, his brow crinkled and a quirk to the full lips. If Grantaire used cliches, he would have said he looked as pretty as a picture. But Grantaire did _not_ use cliches. He had been an art student and did not stoop that low. If Bahorel could see him now, he would never let him forget it.

 

“Because I don’t know your name.” Grantaire watched the expression of confusion lighten slightly, before it darkened once again, finding another flaw in his reasoning.

 

“But why Apollo?”

 

“Have you, by chance read any Greek mythology? Or looked into a mirror?” Grantaire’s flippant remark met silence and Grantaire felt his ears go progressively warmer. He cleared his throat brusquely before picking up a cup and a sharpie. “So will you be giving me a name or will I be forced to write Apollo on this cup?”

 

“Enjolras.” The man hadn't taken his eyes of Grantaire's face and he felt himself shrink under such intense scrutiny. The only other person that watched him this closely was Pierre, and it usually did not bode well form him. He kept expecting this man to suddenly make a comment about how he was a nuisance or couldn't even serve coffee properly. 

 

“Bless you.” This conversation needed to end soon. Grantaire didn't know how much more he could take of standing so close to this man. He had reached the end of the bedazzled stage and was beginning to work himself into a panic.

 

A small smile curved into slight dimples and Enjolras opened his mouth again, saying “No, my name is really Enjolras. It’s spelled E-N-J-O-L-R-A-S.”

 

Grantaire scribbled the name down as he spelled it. “That’ll be right up for you.” There must have been something dismissive in his tone, because Enjolras nodded and wandered off to look at the new art series the cafe had put up. Grantaire waited for the coffee to brew and his eyes strayed to the cup, a painful white against the black lettering of a name. Before he could think twice, Grantaire grabbed the cup, uncapped another marker, and began his masterpiece.  

 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire held up the cup of coffee. “I hope I didn’t offend you earlier. I wouldn’t want the wrath of the gods raining down upon me.” 

 

Enjolras quirked his brow and flicked his eyes down to Grantaire’s name tag. “And I hope I didn’t jump down your throat too much, Grantaire.” Enjolras took the cup, a spark flashing as their fingers brushed and their eyes locked yet again in an inexplicable exchange that seemed to stretch the millisecond it was held into an eternity. He raised an eyebrow and Grantaire quickly let go, pretending to busy himself with the cash register as Enjolras’ footsteps made their way to the door.

 

“Thank you,” Enjolras called over the tinkling of the bell and the momentary burst of noise from the outside world. Grantaire looked up and waved awkwardly,  watching him go, the silhouette of red and black fading into the crowd of people bustling through the streets, but growing stronger and clearer in his mind’s eye. He still felt his fingers tingling and the back of his neck was most definitely flushed red. He hurried to open a few windows, feeling warm, his clothing too constricting, his apron a shackle to the disappointment he was to himself, to Pierre, to his family, even to Enjolras, whom he had only just met. He collapsed into a chair, his legs giving out. He thought of what Enjolras' reaction would be in seeing the quick doodle of Apollo on a chariot that he had done on his cup. Maybe he wouldn't even notice it. That was the most likely outcome.

 

He took a moment to assess the battle. He had been a general jerk, or at least somewhat irritating and perhaps flirtatious. Just as the other baristas. And while Enjolras had not thrown his advances back in his face or answered curtly, as he had with the others, he had not reciprocated. Had he even known that Grantaire had been flirting? Perhaps it had gone over his head. After all, he was probably thinking about his “far left social justice group.” Grantaire smirked at his recollection of Enjolras' dark scowl accenting the high brow and smooth cheekbones.  The fact that Enjolras had not reciprocated Grantaire's flirtations, left him in a precarious situation. He had not been rejected, which would have been the easiest way out. Instead, he had told him his name, a dangerous piece of information. With that, Grantaire could almost complete his fantasies of the two of them, could have a name to moan when he pleased himself in the shower. But most dangerous of all, having a name made it all the easier for Pierre to discover his dirty little secret. Perhaps because he was awash in a glow of happiness, or perhaps because he was surrounded by sunlight and the newest 1975 song, but that thought did not bother him as much as it should have. 

 

As he sat in the soft chair, bathed in sunlight and wrapped in the memory of his name on Enjolras’ lips, lost in the fantasy of imagining this life, Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to care about the peril his treacherous heart was suffering. For he had just seen a guardian angel. 

 

* * *

 

Enjolras was incredibly late in meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but something about that barista, Grantaire, had seemed so intriguing. He was carefree and joking as the other baristas had been, but he had a wit more intelligent than the others it would seem. References to Greek literature and culture? No one had ever tried to pick him up like that before. He smiled slightly at Grantaire's baffled expression when he had gone on his little ABC rant, but then thought that this man could be interested in the group. He seemed intelligent, and he could truly use a few more people to help him out. Also, the coffee he had made was excellent, possibly the best cup of coffee he'd had in weeks. This was also a great draw to him in Enjolras' head. Who knew what other talents this man could give to the cause?

 

Enjolras burst into the flat that he shared with Courfeyrac, grateful for the warm blast of air that greeted him, painful on his cheeks and nose. "I'm here sorry I'm late!" Enjolras called as he took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He headed towards the kitchen.

 

"About time," Courfeyrac said. "I was just telling Combeferre that maybe we should put in a movie and cuddle on the couch because I am lonely and you had yet to show up. But I guess Combeferre's sacrifice towards the greater good won't have to take place today. I'm sorry Combeferre, I know just how much you were looking forward to it." Courfeyrac touched Combeferre's knee and Combeferre smiled slightly over his book before closing it and taking his glasses off to rub them clean. This was a tactic he used often when he wanted to remind a person that he had other things to do and could easily leave if they didn't stop wasting his time. Enjolras winced.

 

"I'm sorry, I stopped to get coffee and it took awhile. I should have let you know." Combeferre smiled and waved his hand slightly. All was forgiven as usual.

 

"Is that a number on your cup?" Courfeyrac asked, sitting up straighter and leaning in to look. Combeferre lifted an eyebrow at Enjolras, and glanced at Courfeyrac, who was inches away from the cup.

 

Enjolras lifted his cup in surprise and what met his eyes caused him to chuckle slightly before breaking into a full belly laugh. Combeferre and Courfeyrac never fully understood why the Greek looking man in a chariot had set off Enjolras in such a manner, but Combeferre later pinned it on the coffee. Courfeyrac did not give a reason, but he had a mischievous glint to his eye that suggested that he had his own suspicions and that he was going to get to the bottom of it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


	2. I Work Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire struggles to reconcile himself to the fact that Enjolras made an impression on him, only to be beset by him when he least expects it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, sorry for the wait! I had to move into college and so that was pretty stressful and time-consuming. Thank you so much for your patience. My schedule looks pretty loaded this fall, so I would probably expect a new chapter every two weeks or so. I liked writing this chapter a ton, so I hope you enjoy it!

A week trudged by, agonizing minute by minute. Every so often, Grantaire would find himself staring out the window, arms wrapped around himself and with what he was sure was a doofy smile wrapped around his face. Sometimes he felt like he was floating. Other times, he felt that he was at the bottom of the abyss, rocky walls towering to unseen heights and him hopeless to get out of the gloom that surrounded him. Whether he was floating or sinking, he seemed out of sync with the world. The world passed so very slowly as thoughts and ideas raced through his mind and the clock ticked in increasing increments of time.

 

Pierre had no doubt noticed that Grantaire was off. He had probably put it down on the punch that Grantaire had gotten a few weeks ago. Whatever he thought, he remained somewhat quiet, but managed to show his concern by making the coffee in the morning, hiding the razors, and keeping an eye on their supply of alcohol. Grantaire caught Pierre’s eyes on him sometimes, felt the worry and pity that radiated from him when he saw the circles under Grantaire’s eyes darken, his coffee go untouched. Grantaire’s thoughts were scattered, but he knew that he had to push forward if he didn’t want this upward spiral to plunge him deeper into depression than he’s ever been. He had been enjoying this period of relatively few panic attacks and peace at home, even if it was filled with a different kind of tension. Grantaire was glad for the moments when he was home alone, when he had time to himself without having to worry about how to behave in a way that would keep Pierre’s curiosity and suspicion low.

 

In the morning he would get up after a fitful night of sleep, his dreams haunted with lingering touches and streaks of light highlighting blond eyelashes. He awoke beside a mop of dark strands that had no curl, and tried to forget. Yet, as his eyes closed, he couldn’t help but wonder at his situation. He didn’t understand this obsession with a man he had barely met, yet he forced it aside in Pierre’s presence. The alarm would go off at seven am sharp. Grantaire would go through the motions of groaning and slamming his alarm to convince Pierre that all was normal and shuffle towards the shower. The shower was unneeded, as he was already awake, but he had to stick to a routine for Pierre and his own sanity. He would towel off and find his least tattered and worn pieces of clothing to wear before wolfing down some toast and chugging coffee. He would head off to work, walking briskly through the tiny winding streets that took him to the Musain, where he held the prestigious position of barista. He would then work all morning pouring coffee, flirting for tips and caught between wanting to see Enjolras again and wanting to disappear from the earth if he walked in. After five hours of tense apprehension, he was free to go. He usually ran errands, went to the gym, cleaned and cooked in the afternoon, making everything perfect for when Pierre arrived him, hoping that it would take the edge off of Pierre’s moodiness and occupy his hands and mind because he found that idleness only made things worse. The only way to continue was to push through.

 

The most stressful part of his day were the long hours at work, waiting and wondering if Enjolras would show up for his overly caffeinated coffee. However, the moments Pierre was at home came at a close second. Grantaire spent all evening hoping the dinner was good, wincing at every out of character comment he made, focusing deliberately on making his movements normal, his actions predictable and to avoid raising suspicion. Grantaire hated every godforsaken second of it. The worst times, by far, were when Pierre wanted to have sex. Grantaire could think of a million other things he wanted to do, and none of them involved Pierre. Unfortunately, his life before Enjolras had a lot of sex in it, which meant that in order to keep things as normal as possible, he had to follow through with sex. Which isn’t to say that his body wasn’t somewhat willing, he just lacked the spirit. He definitely wasn’t into it anymore. Every time he curled his hands in Pierre’s hair, he found short rough brown hair instead of soft golden curls. He expected azure eyes and instead found hazel, and stubble where it should be smooth. Grantaire had to stop himself from moaning Enjolras’ name as he pictured Enjolras instead of Pierre, touching him, fucking him, loving him. He had to keep his guard up even more than usual in these moments where there was absolutely nothing between him and Pierre and he could see every inch of Grantaire and hear everything he said. It made sex into a chore rather than the enjoyable activity it was before.

 

It was always the moments afterwards, where their breathing slowed that Grantaire felt his lowest. Pierre rolled over and fell asleep immediately, while Grantaire stared up at the ceiling, sticky, unmoving, and repulsed by himself. His skin was sticky, covered in drying cum and he felt the urge to get up and scrub his skin until he had washed Pierre out of himself, until the image of Enjolras didn’t make him want to scream his lungs out, until his skin was stained red with blood. As if that wasn’t enough, he was picturing Enjolras the entire time that Pierre was moving on top of him, trying to reach out and imagine Enjolras’ moans, his catching of breath, the occasional gasp he’d make. And that was the worst part, he was having all sorts of sexual fantasies of Enjolras while having sex with his boyfriend. He wanted to cry, so he scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to forget exactly how fucked up he truly was before he started having a panic attack right next to Pierre, which would be difficult to explain because Grantaire hadn’t had a panic attack about sex since their first time.

 

Grantaire forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths as quietly as he could as he took stock of his situation. He was hopelessly obsessed with another man, who, by now had probably forgotten him and his ridiculously childish drawing on the cup. Yet he couldn’t get him out of his mind, and what scared him even more is that he didn’t want to forget _anything_ about Enjolras. As he lay there, still flushed from having sex with his long-term abusive boyfriend, he was mooning over Enjolras, and he didn’t see any way that he could conceivably stop. He was barreling down a one way road, and he could see the wreckage ahead, but he had no way of stopping the car in time and his stomach lurched at the thought of what would happen if Pierre found out what was truly happening in Grantaire’s life, instead of the vaguely amusing stories he told about customers at the café. A secret like Enjolras could land him a black eye for sure, perhaps even a broken nose, and Grantaire isn’t particularly fond of broken noses, his was already crooked from the multiple times it had been broken and put back together by unprofessional hands.

 

The idea of leaving occurred to him for the umpteenth time that week. But he pushed it aside quickly. Grantaire had nowhere to go, no one that he would feel comfortable burdening with the weight of his life and his problems. Bahorel, though a good sparring buddy, seemed too jovial to want a depressed dropout such as himself, let alone Joly and Bossuet, who were wrapped up in their own world for Grantaire to have the heart to intrude on them. Not to mention the fact that he could be in more danger if he left and exposed the secret of his unhappiness than if he stayed here and remained mute and as normal as he could. Pierre had a possessive streak the size of his ego, that is, bigger than the Gulf of Mexico. Perhaps that is what had endeared Grantaire to him in the beginning, he was so used to no one caring about him, that as soon as someone grew possessive of him, he fell to his knees in wonder. Grantaire decided that he would stay for now, until he saw an opportunity to get out. He knew that the chances that he actually acted on this opportunity were slim to none, but the thought helped him drift off that night, as it had the many nights that he contemplated his own dark situation.

 

The next day seemed to pass relatively faster than those of the past few weeks, and Grantaire felt his heart lighten as he walked through the crisp, sunny air to the gym to meet Bahorel for some boxing. Grantaire was looking forward to letting out some tension that had been building behind his shoulders and to spend time with someone that wasn’t Pierre or himself, because that had become more dangerous of late. He stepped inside the warmth of the gym and felt himself relax a little at the familiar atmosphere, swinging his bag off his shoulder as his eyes found Bahorel.

 

The general reaction to Bahorel was a mix of surprise and terror. While he didn’t tower over everyone else, he had an aura that spelled dangerous, most likely coming from the muscles that bulged out of his shirt. Dreds hung halfway down his back and he often wore tank tops that revealed the numerous tattoos that ran up his arms. This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if Bahorel weren’t black, but he was, and unfortunately people generally assumed that Bahorel was a violent gang member. Grantaire knew all about how he volunteered at the local animal shelter and took on cases for what people could afford lawyers when he could. He even had many drunken stories that included Bahorel in drag sobbing over a stray kitten in a back alleyway. Grantaire met Bahorel back when he had tried his hand at college, when Bahorel skipped a lecture in order to go to a petting zoo that visited campus. Grantaire had been absolutely baffled at the large black man with dreds who seemed to be fascinated with a camel’s hair. Bahorel had seen him staring and casually started a conversation about how this guy he knew was a camel trader and once he had been allowed to ride one and by the end of the story, Grantaire had tears of laughter running down his cheeks. They agreed to meet up again and soon discovered that they enjoyed a lot of the same things: boxing, drinking, shirking their duties, and raising widespread mayhem. They were the kind of friends that rarely had serious conversations about their problems or their separate lives, they seemed to communicate through gestures and boxing alone. Grantaire felt close to Bahorel, and loved him like a brother, but he could never see himself telling Bahorel about his relationship with Pierre and his newest mess of problems that lay under the label of Enjolras.

 

Bahorel caught Grantaire’s eye and grinned crookedly, revealing impossibly white teeth. Grantaire knew for a fact that Bahorel used whitening strips copiously in order to preen more in front of the mirror. He was already in his workout clothes and slammed his locker shut as Grantaire approached. “You look like shit, R.” Bahorel always opened with light insults; it was his thing; yet Grantaire sensed an underlying sincerity that cut a little close to his chest, and he attempted to shrug it off with his usual cheer.

 

“You’re just jealous Bahorel.”

 

“No, seriously, are you sleeping?”

 

“Actually, I am having tons of sex, so joke’s on you.” Grantaire added a little laugh to the end of his statement, hoping it sounded flippant enough to pass as a regular Grantaire remark. Bahorel still looked uncertain, so he shouldered past him saying, “Let’s go loser.” Grantaire didn’t look back to see if Bahorel followed.

 

The session that followed was brutal. It had been awhile since Grantaire had boxed with an actual person rather than a bag that suffered his outbursts of frustration. There was a different feel of meeting warm flesh, meeting the resistance of bones beneath his fists. In no time he had sweat burning his eyes and slicking his skin, but he carried on doggedly, knowing that he needed the release, needed to know that he too could cause others pain, that he could smack others around a bit. He knew Bahorel could handle it; he had taken worse before. They were at it for a long time, lost in the flow of their bodies moving together, eyeing for opening, bringing their arms up swiftly to block the fist that threatened to touch base, the occasional muffled noise of surprise when they weren’t fast enough. Grantaire enjoyed boxing deeply, tasting salt on his lips, feeling the sweat drip down his back, hardening his muscles and dodging until his legs were unsteady underneath him. He didn’t know how long they went until Bahorel pulled back.

 

They stood for a few moments, gazing at each other, inspecting the damage as their chests heaved and their sweat began to dry into the grudgingly welcomed sticky chill on their skin. Bahorel eyed him warily, before lifting his arm to inspect a red blow on his ribcage. “Shit, R. You could have just told me that you were in a bad mood. I would have been more careful.”

 

Grantaire didn’t really have an answer for that, so he shrugged nonchalantly and rolled his head back, stretching his neck out. He walked over to the bench and grabbed his towel, rubbing the sweat off his face as best he could before slinging it over his shoulders. He turned back to Bahorel and stiffened immediately. _It couldn’t be._ But it was. Of course he would be here, he was everywhere, he had even invaded Grantaire’s mind. He was relatively certain that this wasn’t an apparition because he was _talking_ and _laughing_ with Bahorel and Bahorel didn’t seem like the type to have hallucinations, and the possibility that they had the very same one would be impossibly slim.  On the other hand, the possibility that Enjolras could look that hot was completely out of his range of imagination. He had imagined all sorts of things before, but he had never imagined this. He was toned, not bulky, his biceps graceful as he gestured with his hands, his ab muscles flexing slightly with each movement. Grantaire caught himself staring at the muscular shoulder rotating and the line of dusky hair that led down the to the waistband of his workout shorts, perfectly framed by hipbones that could cut stone, let alone his own last shreds of dignity. He swallowed dryly.

 

Grantaire realized at that point that he had been standing stock still for a socially unacceptable period of time, especially when gazing at someone. Panicking, he frantically went over his options. He could hardly go talk to Enjolras, who had probably forgotten him, yet he couldn’t leave without Bahorel because he would get suspicious. So he went with the third option, which was also the worst. He stood there indecisively, arguing between the two, his anxiety slowly rising up his throat, threatening to choke him as he stood there, feet away from his- his- whatever Enjolras was. He forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths as quietly as he could, hoping to escape the notice of those around him. He wanted to unglue his eyes from Enjolras’ frame, for therein lay his problem, yet his eyes would not obey him. They sought out his graceful forearms, his slightly sweaty pectoral muscles. Grantaire was so, so, screwed.

 

Bahorel had to call his name three times before Grantaire realized that he was actually doing so. Flushing hotly, Grantaire pretended that he hadn’t spent the last five minutes checking out Enjolras’ goods, and walked over to where Bahorel and Enjolras were chatting. He felt Enjolras’ eyes sweeping over him, from head to toe, as he made his way over, and he remembered every single negative comment Pierre had made about Grantaire’s body. There was the jagged, raised scar on his bicep from his time on the streets (as well as the broken nose that never set properly), some self-harm scars running up his forearms, his hips that were too broad, his overall shortness and occasional chub, not to mention that he was hairy and sweaty from his workout. He felt low, looking up at this superhuman, who, though it was evident that he had been working out, looked as if he had just stepped out of some fashion magazine. Probably Men’s Health judging from those hipbones. He was distinctly aware of his tattered shorts that were slightly to small for him, and his rat’s nest of hair was matted with sweat.

 

“Grantaire, this is Enjolras. He’s the one who leads that activist group that I told you about.” Bahorel seemed oblivious to Grantaire’s discomfort and turned to Enjolras. “I’ve been trying to convince him to come to the meetings, but he always gets out of it somehow, begging some sort of excuse. He’s good at that sort of thing.” Enjolras’ eyes hadn’t left Grantaire, and he felt the full weight of those deep blue eyes that reminded Grantaire that he still wanted to see the Mediterranean before he died. He prayed desperately to any god out there that they would stop Bahorel from telling the drunk stories, especially the one-“You know the drunk story about the peas and the camel and drag racing? Yeah, this is that Grantaire.”

 

Enjolras quirked his eyebrow. Apparently, he _had_ heard that story. Damn Bahorel. Damn him to the deepest depths of hell and then another step down. “Nice to meet you Grantaire. I must say that I didn’t have the artistic barista pinned down as the type to drag race camels.”

 

Grantaire laughed, wincing internally as it came out too loud. “Yeah, that’s me. Always the surprise.” _Just get through this conversation Grantaire and then you can go home, curl into your bed and not move for a few hours. Maybe even have a good cry._

Enjolras stuck his hand out. “Enjolras, in case you couldn’t remember. I know I had to spell it out last time, but I think we can skip that this time.” He smile quizzically and Grantaire hated him in that moment. How was he so unaffected by others? By his surroundings? How was he so confident and charming and beautiful and a reminder of everything that Grantaire was not? Grantaire felt the ice cold sweat on his skin as reminded yet again of all his flaws, staring at the hand that stretched into the neutral space between them. His rage subsided instantly, replaced with a hollow feeling in his chest that was almost worse. Slowly, wonderingly, he reached out, belatedly thinking that his hand was clammy. Enjolras’ palm was slightly rough and it sent a delightful tingle to Grantaire’s navel. Enjolras’ grip was strong and Grantaire found himself responding, shaking his hand. He held on for a fraction too long, unable to tear his hand away, but Enjolras didn’t seem to notice, his gaze expectantly searching Grantaire’s face. Oh right, they introducing themselves formally.

 

“Grantaire.” His voice came out hoarse and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Grantaire,” he repeated, his voice stronger and slightly more normal this time around. “Though everyone calls me sexy.” Grantaire groaned internally. His mouth ran away from him too often. He really should learn how to control that habit.

 

Enjolras scanned him again, openly. “I see.” His tone was curt and brisk, worlds away from his earlier and friendlier tone. He turned to Bahorel and changed the subject. “So the meeting will be at the same time as usual. I have to get going, I think that I’m running late to yet another meeting with Courfeyrac but I’m sure he’ll find some way to occupy himself. He’s quite the expert. Say hi to Feuilly for me and remind him to look into the minimum wage stuff I sent him. I know he’s busy, but he could help a lot of people.”

 

Bahorel nodded, a grin splitting his face. “I’ll remind him, but he’ll only yell at me.”

 

Enjolras seemed to agree with Bahorel’s conclusion and nodded matter-of-factly. He turned to Grantaire, a polite expression on his face. “I hope you consider coming to one of the meetings. Bahorel has told me that you like designing things and have an interest in art. We could use some help with posters and flyers. Since most of us are law students, we are terrible with creativity. Think about it.” He added the last gently, before he was gone. Grantaire most definitely did not check out his ass as he walked away. And Bahorel did not nudge him and raise a suggestive eyebrow.

 

Later Bahorel programmed Enjolras’ number in Grantaire’s phone “just in case” and sent him a text with information about the next meeting. Grantaire left in a storm of curses and more frustrated than when he came to the gym. Bahorel watched him go, his teasing smile slowly fading to a worried crease between his eyebrows.

 

* * *

 

 

Courfeyrac had indeed found a method of entertaining himself. It consisted of baking cupcakes with Combeferre. Although, Combeferre was, admittedly, not doing much baking. He was reading the cookbook from front to back, as Courfeyrac attempted to read the instructions from one of the pages that Combeferre had already passed. This led to a minor scuffle, which had left the majority of the batter anywhere but the bowl. Courfeyrac was just suggesting licking off the batter and Combeferre was blushing as Enjolras slammed the doorway loudly, announcing his presence at the sickeningly repressed lovefest.

 

“Do you know Grantaire, Bahorel’s boxing art friend?” Enjolras dived straight in, not bothering to greet either of them as they shuffled awkwardly away from each other.

 

“I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never met him. Though we’d get along really well from what I’ve heard with the racing camels….” Courfeyrac trailed off thoughtfully, his eyes in the distance, most likely imagining midnight escapades on the hairy and humped beasts.

 

“About the same for me. Though perhaps I’d get along with him for different reasons.” Combeferre added with a wry grin.

 

“I just met him,” Enjolras announced.

 

“ _What?_ ” Courfeyrac had jumped off of his chair, a fire in his eyes. “Before me? I really must get out more. I am offended that Enjolras met someone before me. Combeferre, my honor is at stake. I demand that you challenge him to a duel.”

 

“I hardly see you as a damsel in distress Courfeyrac.” Combeferre straightened his glasses as he met Enjolras’ eye.

 

“I demand a chess match at the very least,” Courfeyrac insisted.

 

“Courfeyrac-“

 

“Excuse me, but I was talking before you two started flirting,” Enjolras interrupted and was rewarded with a silence as other two fumbled for words. “Thank you. I just asked because there was something off about the guy.”

 

“What do you mean? Creepy off? Going to kill you in your sleep kind of off?” Combeferre said, as Courfeyrac began scraping dried cupcake batter off the counter absent-mindedly.

 

Enjolras struggled to put his thoughts into words. “No, he seemed like an ok guy, it was just with the drinking story, I imagined another Bahorel but it turned out to be that barista that drew on my cup of coffee a few weeks ago-“

 

“Wait, that was Grantaire?” Courfeyrac had straightened in his seat and gripped Combeferre’s arm.

 

“Yes, Courf, pay attention. Anyway, I expected someone like Bahorel and he does box and drink and he has tattoos, but I got this feeling that he was holding back you know? I thought he was kind of acting? And he was all weird around me. I don’t know. Do you know anything else about him?” Enjolras’ tone was bewildered and the faces of his companions betrayed their own confusion.

 

“Sorry, Enjolras, I don’t know anything about him,” Combeferre answered. Courfeyrac made a sound of agreement and nodded, belatedly realizing that he was still clutching Combeferre’s arm and letting go hastily. “Why?” Combeferre added curiously.

 

Enjolras shrugged, turning away to make himself some more coffee. Combeferre dropped the subject, but the house was filled with a strange tension that night as their eyes followed each move that someone else made.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


	3. Curiosity Killed the Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire tells himself he won't go to the meeting. Enjolras is dangerous. Grantaire finds himself there anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok here it is. It's been about two weeks, I think, so I guess I kept my promise. You're welcome. I hope you enjoy this one, I quite liked it. I'm thinking of changing the title of this fic to "There is a light that never goes out." Thoughts?

For the tenth time that day, Grantaire found himself staring at Bahorel’s text message informing him of the meeting of the Amis that night. After a moment of silent cursing, he quickly shoved it into his pocket, hoping that his traitorous hands would forget about the information that weighed down his pocket, stretching his awareness to that place and time that he knew he could see Enjolras. With trembling fingers, he finished wiping down the counter that had been abandoned in his useless staring contest with his phone. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the electric thrill that jolted his stomach at the thought of seeing Enjolras again, because he wasn’t going to go. He had to stay away from Enjolras. He was dangerous.

 

Grantaire was already in a shitty situation. He couldn’t drag Enjolras into it, not only because of his pride, but the risk of Grantaire becoming utterly destroyed under the pressure of both Pierre and Enjolras. Enjolras would be sickened by Grantaire’s abusive relationship. Pierre would be sure to take out his anger at Grantaire’s unstable emotions quite often. On Grantaire. And Grantaire wasn’t sure which was worse. There was the deep shame curling in his belly, the heaviness of knowing that he was in an abusive relationship and not worth saving. He didn’t know how he could handle Enjolras’ shock and horror at his discovery of Pierre’s abuse, but he didn’t want to anger Pierre either. The only solution was to stay far, far away from that red and gold silhouette that haunted his subconscious. Giving in would only make it worse.

 

Somehow he made it through the rest of his shift without pulling out his phone. He mostly did this by doodling on napkins behind the counter to pass the time, but unfortunately found that his napkins comprised of arching eyebrow, curls masking wide set eyes and slender hands that were much too familiar to Grantaire’s memory for his comfort. He quickly threw them in the garbage, disregarding the urge to cast one lingering glance over the inky lines that converged to make a face that Grantaire couldn’t comprehend.  Enjolras should not have seeped into his veins so quickly, should not already be bursting out of him. Grantaire should not be able to draw the quirk of those full lips without even realizing it. He shouldn’t; but he did, and it made his hands tremble with a kind of desperation that he had only ever acquainted with alcohol. But this shaking wasn’t a craving for alcohol and Grantaire knew it, and the thought made his stomach lurch and his throat burned as he kept the wetness from his eyes.

 

He retrieved his coat and left, walking briskly through the windy streets of Paris, steadfastly ignoring the thumping of his heart and the nauseous twisting of his gut as he was reminded yet again that he had not had enough alcohol today. He almost turned at a flash of blonde curls in his peripheral vision, but restrained the urge, forcing himself to breathe normally and to quicken his steps as he pulled his coat closer to him, wrapping himself protectively from the image of Enjolras in these very streets, leading his own life, a life that Grantaire would never allow himself to know. Grantaire kept his head down, partly to hide his face from the nipping wind, but also to watch himself place one foot in front of the other, his ratty converse making their way unsteadily over the uneven cobblestones. 

 

Grantaire found his feet wandering through the park near his apartment, enjoying the weak sunlight filtering it’s way through the bare tree branches, his steps crunching vibrant leaves underfoot. The air was crisp, with the teasing bite of the oncoming winter, and Grantaire smiled into his scarf. Grantaire enjoyed the fall, the graceful descent into death complimented his mindset, his moods. There was nothing more satisfying than seeing a red leaf fall, twirling in its last twitches of agony, towards the cold hard ground. It was innately satisfying and beautiful in a morbid way that fascinated Grantaire. He enjoyed the musky smell that carried a hint of apple and smoky scent emitted from chimney tops.

 

Grantaire found a bench to sit on, and let himself enjoy these few moments of peace. Things had been tense at home and at work. Grantaire felt eyes on him everywhere, and it was a luxury to have a few moments to himself. He perked up at this opportunity to relax, to engage in one of his favorite activities-people watching. As a person who dabbled in drawing and painting occasionally, he found himself fascinated with human beings. Not only their clothing, their gestures, their actions, but seeing the great diversity that came to a certain place for various reasons. There were young and old, students and businessmen, the occasional musician and someone working on their laptop or reading. Grantaire relished in watching these people, picking up on their tiny idiosyncrasies.  There was a lady who ran by every afternoon at two, blasting Fall Out Boy so loud that Grantaire could hear the familiar chords every time she ran by. There was the old couple who came every week, always on the same bench, but with different books. The man was going through biographies; the woman was reading young adult fiction. Grantaire recognized a few titles. Sometimes he pulled out a cigarette, enjoying the languorous drag and the swirling patterns of smoke. Other times he would just sit and watch, or bring a book to read.

 

Only once or twice, had he brought a piece of paper and allowed himself to do some sketching. Grantaire found that he was most at peace when he was absorbed in art. He hardly noticed how dark the world around him was, hardly felt the pounding headache, almost forgot the apartment that stood waiting for him, a stranger that he almost knew most likely wondering where he was. Today, Grantaire just watched the people pass by, smiling as he overheard some conversations, frowning as he heard others. He tipped his head back on the bench, closing his eyes. The breeze ruffled his hair, playfully tugging curls over his head. He was sure to have terribly messy hair when he got home.

 

Slowly, the shade of the tree behind him crept up to overtake him and he sighed heavily, deciding it was time to get back to the apartment that he dreaded. He stood to go back, having almost forgotten the extra weight of the phone in his pocket, but being betrayed by the fingers that slipped into his pocket to softly caress it, checking that it was still there, almost as if it were a lifeline. As he hurried to his flat, he felt his walls come back up, and forced himself to take deep breaths, placing a false calm on his exterior that he didn’t quite understand. But Grantaire had spent years on the streets, he knew when to put up an act, and he could put on a damn good one.

 

“Where have you been?” Pierre asked as soon as the door shut behind him. He didn’t sound angry, but that was worse. Pierre was only ever deadly calm when he was the most angry. He persecuted Grantaire with a cold efficiency that chilled Grantaire to the bone. There was never a warning when the abuse came.

 

Grantaire forced himself to act normally, taking off his coat and scarf to hang them up, before replying. “It was a nice day, so I went for a walk in the park.” Pierre had never been angry with Grantaire going for a walk, though he sometimes mentioned that it was a waste of time that he could be using more “constructively,” to use his exact wording.

 

“Well, I was wondering where you were. You should have let me know that you weren’t going to be home for a while.” Pierre’s voice was conciliatory, tinged with worry. Grantaire almost believed his sincerity, until he saw the ice in Pierre’s eyes. It wasn’t about Grantaire’s wellbeing. It was about Pierre’s dominance. Grantaire pretended he didn’t know, lowering his eyes in what Pierre took as a submissive gesture. “I’m going to be gone tonight, there’s a work gathering.”

 

Grantaire nodded. Pierre had these work gatherings relatively often. Grantaire was never allowed to go because Pierre would be embarrassed to introduce his boyfriend, the barista with no future. Sometimes Grantaire got the sneaking suspicion that Pierre was cheating on him. He told himself that he didn’t care, that he knew their relationship was normal, that he wanted Pierre to spend less time with him anyway because Pierre made him nervous. But no matter what he told himself, it still hurt on those nights when he didn’t come home until the early hours of the morning, smelling slightly of alcohol and stealing into bed like a child caught out of bed. It didn’t change the fact that his cold and empty bed seemed to press itself around him, strangling him, or the fact that by the end of the night his pillow was wet and he had spent half the night tidying up to distract himself from the barren loneliness that stretched deep inside of him.

 

Grantaire occupied himself with tedious household chores, trying to keep his hands busy as Pierre got ready for the night, showering, shaving, dressing carefully and double checking himself in the mirror. He determinedly paid no attention to Pierre’s preening and even less to the fact that he had left his phone in his coat pocket. Pierre eventually left, with a “I’ll be back late; don’t wait up,” called over his shoulder and the door clicking shut just a little too firmly, betraying Pierre’s enthusiasm at leaving Grantaire behind.

 

Grantaire was left in the hollow flat, wringing his hands as silence settled into the dimness around him. He absentmindedly checked the clock before heading back towards the door and grabbing his coat. He found himself two streets down from his house before realizing that he had even left it. He shook himself, and turned back to his apartment. As he arrived, he saw a familiar figure loitering by his door.

 

“Bahorel?” Grantaire squinted through the twilight, surprised Bahorel even knew where he lived.

 

“R! Where have you been? I thought you’d be home, or at least that Pierre would be.” Bahorel grinned, clapping Grantiare’s shoulder in greeting.

 

“Nah, he had to go to some work gathering.” Grantaire played his voice off as casual, wincing slightly at the sting of Bahorel’s hand.

 

“And he didn’t invite you? That was a little rude of him.” Bahorel was smiling, but Grantaire knew from his inflection that Bahorel wasn’t happy. Bahorel had never been a huge fan of Pierre, thinking that Grantaire could do much better, and that was most likely their only bone of contention.

 

“It’s fine. I was looking forward to the flat to myself. Why are you here? Don’t you have that meeting?”

 

“I’m picking you up, loser. We have to run cause we are going to be late.” Bahorel grabbed Grantaire’s arm and started pulling him quickly down the sidewalk as Grantaire’s brain struggled to keep up with Bahorel’s far-fetched explanations.

 

“Bahorel, I’m not going!”

 

“Why not? I know you’re curious.” Bahorel was still marching deliberately down the street, but he had to do less pulling now that Grantaire’s legs had caught up to the task.

 

“Because! First of all Pierre doesn’t know. Secondly, I’d rather not involve myself in something I find to be utter bullshit, and thirdly I don’t actually want to go.” Grantaire’s voice was firm. He couldn’t have Pierre finding out about this.

 

“Ok, well fuck Pierre. He doesn’t control you Grantaire. What’s the worst thing that could happen if he found out?”

 

Grantaire kept silent, unwilling to look at Bahorel, because if he did, he would break down and tell Bahorel. And he could _not_ do that. Grantaire was tough, and he didn’t want Bahorel’s pity.

 

“Just don’t tell him, man. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. He doesn’t get back until late right? Just get home before he does and you’ll be fine.” Bahorel’s tone was soft, and Grantaire hated it, but he did concede that Bahorel had a point there.

 

“Fine. I’ll go. Just this once, Bahorel. This can’t be a regular thing.” Grantaire’s statement sounded week, even to his own ears, but he pretended that he was fine and continued to walk beside Bahorel, discreetly putting some distance between them, as if not touching him would conceal his thoughts from Bahorel. The remainder of the walk was silent, the muffled sound of their feet hitting the pavement only broken by the occasional sound of a rumbling car or distant bursts of conversation.

 

The meeting was located in the Café Musain, a few streets down from the café where Grantaire spent his mornings serving people. It was small, but Grantaire had been there a few times and knew that the food was decent, even if their selection of alcohol left something to be desired. It was cozy inside, somewhat cluttered, but with a homely feel. Bahorel led Grantaire to the back room, where a conglomeration of people was mingling around the room. There looked to be about ten people there, all in their twenties. Grantaire took a table towards the back and Bahorel joined him.

 

Grantaire had spotted Enjolras as soon as he had walked into the room. His curls shone in the electrical light as he organized papers and files on the table in front of him. He was flanked by two other men, who seemed to be flirting over his head. Enjolras was oblivious to this as he scanned the room with his azure gaze. Their eyes met and Enjolras smiled slightly at him. Grantaire felt his hands dampen against the beer that Bahorel had given him. He gave what he hoped was a smile, but feared it was more of a grimace. Then, he dragged his eyes away, to look anywhere but at Enjolras’ penetrating stare.

 

“Boy, you got it bad.” Bahorel interrupted Grantaire’s staring match with his beer bottle, his voice lowered and slightly teasing. Grantaire punched Bahorel’s shoulder.

 

“Shut the fuck up man. You don’t know anything.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot Grantaire. I have known you for a while and I’m just worried about you ok?” Bahorel’s brow was furrowed, concern in his eyes. Grantaire dropped his gaze.

 

“Well, it’s none of your business,” Grantaire muttered as he brought the bottle to his lips. He hated the necessity of being on his own, of lying to Bahorel, who he considered a brother, but some things were better left alone. He pulled his defensive barriers closer around him.

 

“Just be careful,” Bahorel said softly. Grantaire didn’t respond, glaring at the scratches on the tabletop as if they had personally offended him.

 

Enjolras stood, calling attention to himself with a clearing of the throat. Grantaire kept his gaze down, refusing to look at the figure that commanded the room and Grantaire’s sanity it would appear. Then Enjolras began to speak. He was impassioned, he was glorious, he was the sun. In that moment, Grantaire knew he was lost. He didn’t believe in anything that Enjolras said, couldn’t understand that Enjolras believed he could change things, couldn’t comprehend how he overlooked the basic components of humanity: greed, apathy, hate. And yet, before he had realized it he had raised his eyes to this vision in all his magnificence. Grantaire didn’t know how much time passed, but he knew that when Enjolras finished, he was probably gaping at him like a fish. Grantaire quickly lowered his head again, hiding his eyes behind the fringe of dark curls that hung in his face. He started picking the label off of the beer bottle as he listened to Enjolras and his two advisors conclude the business of the meeting, discussing raising awareness and flyers and posters. Eventually Enjolras sat down and started putting his papers away, which seemed to be a universal sign for the end of the meeting, as people got up and started chattering. Grantaire noticed that he was getting some curious glances, and hurried to make his way out of the door, deciding he would apologize to Bahorel for leaving him at their next boxing session.

 

Grantaire sighed in relief at the chilly night air, feeling his shoulders relax after the tension of the past few hours, between Pierre, Bahorel, and Enjolras. Grantaire fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He paused on the sidewalk to light it and took his first drag, gazing up at the glittering stars above him. He jumped slightly as a voice cut through his reverie. “Those are bad for you, you know.”

 

Grantaire knew immediately that Enjolras was speaking to him. He didn’t turn around; he just waited for Enjolras to catch up, measuring his breaths against Enjolras’ steadily approaching footsteps. He deliberately took another drag, attempting to calm his nerves, but he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. “I know,” he answered Enjolras belatedly, not taking his eyes off of the heavens, somewhat incredulous that Enjolras had desired his company.

 

“I’m surprised you came. Glad of course, but I hadn’t expected it.” Enjolras’ tone was casual, almost practiced in its ease.

 

Grantaire huffed a laugh. “Couldn’t stay away, Antinous. You’re light draws all us cynics, like moths to a flame.” He took another drag. Enjolras remained silent at that. Grantaire felt his hot gaze on his face, but he forced himself to continue gazing at the stars. He eventually finished his cigarette and stubbed it under his foot. “I should get home.” Grantaire wanted to wander the streets, to feel alive in the dead of night, but he knew he had to be home for Pierre.

 

“Do you mind if I walk you?” Enjolras’ voice was unsure, and Grantaire shot a furtive look at his face. It was slightly troubled, but it wasn’t aggressive. He seemed sincere enough in his offer.

 

“It’s your funeral.” Grantaire started walking again, not bothering to see if Enjolras followed. Enjolras fell into step with him. They were quiet, Grantaire watching their feet slowly come into sync with each other, Enjolras watching their cold puffs of breath mingle. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Grantaire’s flat wasn’t too far off, so he didn’t have enough time to decide whether or not he was obligated to make conversation. He was terrified that if he made conversation Enjolras would be bored, but equally terrified that the uncomfortable silence would make Enjolras bored. “This is me,” Grantaire said eventually, as he saw the entrance to his building a few feet ahead of him.

 

“Alright. Thank you for attending the meeting, Grantaire.” Enjolras put his hand out to shake, and Grantaire took it hesitantly. Enjolras’ hand was warm from his pocket, and Grantaire felt his stiff cold fingers come to life briefly in his grasp.

 

“Thank you for the escort home, jefe.” Grantaire gave a little smirk at Enjolras’ narrow-eyed response.

 

“Hope to see you again soon.” Grantaire’s heart did _not_ flutter at that. He ignored it completely.

 

“Good night, Enjolras.” Grantaire entered his building and waited until he heard Enjolras’ footsteps walking away to climb up the stairs. He collapsed against his door as he shut it and hurried to the window to see if Enjolras was still visible. Enjolras was at the end of the street, under a lamplight with the telltale glow of a lit cigarette between his fingers. His head was dropped back against the lamppost, and Grantaire quickly averted his eyes and forced himself to change out of his clothes and commence his nightly routine.

 

Grantaire glanced at the lamppost again before shutting the blinds to find the glow of light there empty. He pulled them shut sharply and wondered what he had done in his past life to deserve such a mess. Grantaire flopped on to bed and watched the shadows from the cracks in his blind play on the ceiling. He didn’t sleep; his bed remained empty long after the morning sunlight stretched across the barren room.

 

* * *

 

 

Combeferre looked up as Enjolras shut the door to their flat. He was clutching a book and there was a cup of tea sitting on the coffee table beside him. It was half empty. "Where have you been?" Combeferre asked as Enjolras began to shed his coat.

 

"I talked to Grantaire. Walked him home," Enjolras answered shortly. He sat on the couch next to Combeferre.

 

"Have you been smoking?" Combeferre asked in surprise, wrinkling his nose.

 

"Is it that obvious?"

 

"You reek, Enjolras. Are you ok? You haven't had one in a while." Combeferre put his book down carefully, turning to face Enjolras.

 

"Yes. I'm fine. I don't know what happened, I just found myself with one in my hand." Enjolras looked down at his hands, hating his moment of weakness. 

 

Combeferre sighed and got up to make Enjolras a cup of tea. He could tell that it was going to be a long night; it had been awhile since Enjolras had a cigarette. Obviously something had triggered it, he just needed to find out what happened. Besides, he hadn't been getting any reading done in the first place, too wound up from the meeting and Courfeyrac's increasingly suggestive comments to focus on the plot. On second thought, Combeferre thought, glancing at the morose Enjolras sitting dejectedly on the lumpy couch, perhaps coffee was a better idea than tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


	4. Meet The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the next few weeks, Grantaire continued to go to the meetings, allowing himself the small luxury of a few hours in the same room as Enjolras and these people who somehow managed to believe things that he had always seen as impossible. If they had seen half the things he had, they wouldn’t be so quick to rush to the aid of the People. After all, the People were the ones that had cast Grantaire out, forcing him to take to the cruelest ways of earning a living just to survive. Slowly, however, Grantaire grew used to the amount of optimism that colored the room and familiarized himself with the other members of the Amis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update! I hope it was somewhat satisfactory....

Over the next few weeks, Grantaire continued to go to the meetings, allowing himself the small luxury of a few hours in the same room as Enjolras and these people who somehow managed to believe things that he had always seen as impossible. If they had seen half the things he had, they wouldn’t be so quick to rush to the aid of the People. After all, the People were the ones that had cast Grantaire out, forcing him to take to the cruelest ways of earning a living just to survive. Slowly, however, Grantaire grew used to the amount of optimism that colored the room and familiarized himself with the other members of the Amis.

 

Grantaire first learned the names of the two men that followed Enjolras’ shadow, caught between Enjolras’ ideals and each other’s gaze. The word that first came to Grantaire’s mind when he saw Courfeyrac was bubbly. It was slightly unnerving how such a short frame could contain so much energy, but Courfeyrac pulled it off with an easy charm that put a smile on anyone’s face, and most often on Combeferre’s. He always had the skinniest jeans of the most vibrant colors and a charismatic grin dimpling his cheeks. His dark hair curled around his face and his arched eyebrows were always giving the impression of mischief to his liquid brown eyes. Courfeyrac enjoyed making others laugh and was an immensely open character that made it hard for him to keep his hands to himself, and it seemed in fact that his hands were always moving, gesticulating as he articulated his thoughts with a passion that vibrated throughout his entire body. He had an enthusiasm for the cause that was contagious and enjoyed poking fun at Enjolras almost as much as Grantaire did, which made Grantaire consider him an ally, especially when he learned that Courfeyrac went out partying often and found immense pleasure in dragging Enjolras along.

 

Combeferre was quieter than Courfeyrac, but no less charismatic. Where Courfeyrac was boisterous and flirty, Combeferre was reserved. However, he was quick to care for his friends and offer a kind word of advice in such a manner that you hardly realized that he had done so. He was intelligent, speaking in measured tones and lugging around large tomes with him in his worn satchel. His auburn hair was on the longer side, and his bangs hung over his glasses when he was too busy to go to the hairdressers. He dressed in a collection of neat sweaters that tended to be pushed up his forearms when he was deeply absorbed in work. Combeferre smiled often, but his softest smiles were directed towards Courfeyrac when he thought no one was looking. Grantaire understood those looks, just as he understood the panic in Courfeyrac’s eyes when Combeferre pointedly ignored Courfeyrac’s occasional flirtatious antics. Grantaire watched them quietly, with a bittersweet tinge in his chest. They were painfully in love, and he knew in his heart that they would make it together. Grantaire wished he could say the same when it came to his love life.

 

The next name he learned was Feuilly’s. He remembered that Enjolras had mentioned him to Bahorel, and he was coming to realize that Enjolras did that a lot. Feuilly was not exactly a quiet person, but he tended to fade into the background because his crazy work schedule usually meant he didn’t linger after the meeting, and he tended to refrain from the ludicrous adventures the rest of the Amis seemed to get themselves into. He had ginger curls that he tended to pull back into a ponytail and seemingly permanent circles under his eyes, yet he displayed an excellent wit from what Grantaire had seen of him, and he seemed to be one of the only people that could effectively shut Bahorel down. He was perhaps the most focused of the Amis outside of the Big Three, as Grantaire liked to call Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. He was always well informed on the issues that Enjolras was speaking about, and Grantaire could immediately see why Feuilly would have such respect in Enjolras’ eyes. That didn’t stop the cold twist of jealousy from rearing its head every time Enjolras casually mentioned Feuilly’s name yet again as an icon of perfection. Grantaire did however have a grudging admiration towards this man who had survived the foster system and lived off of the minimum wage, trying his best to make ends meet. Grantaire knew how difficult it was to just barely scrape by. The fact that Feuilly had artistic tendencies and made intricate origami for everyone during the meeting did not affect this whatsoever.

 

Feuilly’s freckles where only outnumbered by those of Jehan Prouvaire, the resident poet. Grantaire first noticed his slight figure because of his completely flawless ability to pull off a flower crown entwined in his French braid, while wearing hot pink skinny jeans and a Christmas sweater. Grantaire soon learned that these bizarre ensembles were commonplace in Jehan’s life and he soon began to love them in their own special way. Jehan spent a lot of time with Courfeyrac, the two getting along like revolution and a barricade, that is to say extremely well. Jehan had the special talent of not only enduring Courfeyrac’s bracing personality, but to continue finding it amusing even after he had gotten kicked out of several cafes and singed his hair one time burning pamphlets with Courfeyrac. Most people assumed that because of his wiry frame, Jehan didn’t like confrontation. While this was partly true, Jehan hated being forced to fight, Jehan was just as likely as Bahorel to start a fight, and he was twice as deadly with a black belt in three types of martial arts. Grantaire had heard him arguing for aromantic asexual rights, claiming that people could be content with their plants, just like he was. And Jehan did love his plants. From what Grantaire gathered, he had named them all after poets and often would make mundane conversation with them. Jehan was a most curious character that Grantaire felt an immediate connection with. It was clear that he had an artistic soul, and that he had recognized the artistic tendency pulsing in Grantaire’s veins. They hadn’t spoken much, but Grantaire knew he had found an immediate friend.

 

He was surprised to see Joly and Bossuet at the next few meetings. They hadn’t been at the first one Grantaire attended, on account of Bossuet’s latest incident that somehow involved a spatula, but Grantaire wasn’t quite sure what happened because Joly was babbling excitedly while keeping a very close eye on Bossuet. Joly had a big heart, which in Grantaire’s mind was what kept him with Bossuet. Which led him to Joly’s second best trait: patience. No matter how many times Bossuet had an incident, or one the Amis (mostly Enjolras) ignored his medical advice and got sick, Joly still had a cheery smile as he helped them clean up their mess and didn’t ever need to say I told you so. Joly tended to worry and fuss over his friends, especially when it came to their health, but it seemed all of the Amis knew that it was Joly’s way of expressing affection. Joly had brown hair that was always a bit unkempt, which seemed to fit the fact that his glasses were also often askew. Joly always carried around a few extra handkerchiefs and hand sanitizer for his friends, as well as lotions, Chap Stick and various types of Band-Aids that he switched according to the time of year or by request. It was most often Disney themed, but there was the occasional Marvel character, and there had been Angry Birds at some point. Bossuet was an enchantingly clumsy man that seemed to have the worst of luck. Grantaire was willing to bet that Bossuet had been arrested more times than Enjolras. But since he was such a sincere and heartfelt person, Bossuet had not only befriended the entire police force, he had also become familiar with a lot of the worn faces behind the bars. Bossuet was also on affectionate terms with the nursing staff at the nearby hospital because of the amount of time he spent there.  Between the two of them, they were a perfectly matched pair, so embedded in each other’s lives that they were practically in sync. Both of them were extremely excited that Grantaire had finally started coming to the meetings and teased him about it without prodding too much at the core reason Grantaire was coming, though he felt like sometimes his emotions were so raw that it was evident to everyone why he continued to occupy his chair towards the back of the rom, flanked by Joly and Bossuet and occasionally Bahorel, when Feuilly didn’t show up to a meeting.

 

However the weeks passed, and although Grantaire became more habituated the ideas that floated through the room, Enjolras continued to dig into his skin, a continuous itch that caused him to fidget and a restlessness of spirit that translated into nervous energy. Grantaire got more tips than ever at work as he threw himself into with a desperation born of the need to expel this feeling of agitation that held the pit of his belly on the verge of nausea. His manager had complimented his work ethic and even hinted at a raise if he kept it up, but that only made Grantaire feel more miserable. He wandered the streets in the afternoon, choosing different routes and finding his feet carried him to the most hauntingly beautiful parts of Paris; the ones that sent a shiver down his spine and goose bumps up his arms and the curling of his fingers around charcoal that he did not have. His eyes roamed over these scenes- the haunting loneliness of the Parc Monceau, with its abandoned arches and weeping willows, and the busy swirl of businessmen and tourists mingling at the tourist areas, watching humanity in it’s simplest nature, surrounded by others, but in their own little world. He spent time in the gym, ruthlessly pounding punching bag after punching bag, before trying to go through the graceful swoops of fencing to calm his mind. When that failed, he fell back on dance and running, trying to loose his body to the flow of music, but the feeling of mindlessness always faded, leaving the leeching anxiety unappeased and an unending scream crawling up his throat no matter how many times he brutally pushed it down, forcing his throat to close around the unvoiced despair rising from the very pit of his hopelessness.

 

It all came to a head about a month after Enjolras had walked him home. There were meetings two or three times a week, but Grantaire only dared go to about half of them, not wanting to raise Pierre’s suspicions and usually going when Pierre had something that called him out of the house in the evening-an event that happened to be increasing in frequency. Sometimes Grantaire wondered if he should be worried about that, but it allowed him more time with the Amis, where he increasingly felt more comfortable, so he couldn’t complain. He realized that what Pierre did anymore was or hardly any more concern to him. This realization led to a breakdown in the bathroom as he shaved one morning, realizing that Pierre hadn’t come home the night before and that he didn’t even care. What had happened? He had been content with Pierre and now he could hardly stand looking at him, couldn’t be worried about him when he disappeared, only worried about what this new twitchy feeling was that danced across his skin. It had been a particularly bad day that day, his concentration practically nonexistent and repeatedly counting out the wrong change to customers.

 

Grantaire was already nervous about when Pierre was going to get back that night and when Enjolras began talking about the foster system, he knew that nothing good would come of it. Enjolras’ general solution was that foster care families should be given stricter regulations so that they don’t abuse the children, which prompted Grantaire to start mumbling under his breath, unable to sit there and hear Enjolras without some form of venting. He needed a distraction, so much so that he hardly heard Enjolras address him. “Do you have something to say, Grantaire?”

 

The entire room seemed to still, and everyone turned to look at him as Joly and Bossuet immediately became interested in their bottle and their hands respectively. Grantaire looked around the rooming, seeing the expressions on all of the Amis faces as if in a blur. He felt his pulse escalate; yet he forced himself to swallow and project his voice. “I-It’s just that, I think that’s the wrong way to go about it. It’s already hard enough to find a foster family, if you make it harder to be a foster family then there will more children forced to stay with one foster family and a lot of kids could end up in the streets.” Grantaire’s voice was surprisingly strong, and he gained confidence as it seemed that some of the Amis saw his point, nodding. Feuilly seemed to understand Grantaire’s view the best, and turned expectantly towards Enjolras.

 

“Are you saying that it is better that they are abused in these homes, Grantaire?” Enjolras’ voice had risen slightly, and his voice seemed to convey some frustration.

 

Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair shakily, unnerved by Enjolras’ penetrative stare, but exhilarated at the most amount of attention he had received from Enjolras since the night he had been escorted home. “Of course not, Enjolras. But we have to think about the greater good for all the children. There is always going to be abuse, but the children who are abused usually end up on the streets. However, percentage wise, it would be fewer than the amount who would be on the streets if the restrictions on foster parents were more stringent.”

 

“So you would rather do nothing?” Enjolras’ voice had risen slightly, and Grantaire could sense Joly and Bossuet fidgeting beside him, uncomfortable. He forced himself to remain silent, his stony glare challenging Enjolras. He held his gaze for a few tense moments, before nodding slightly and turning to Feuilly, who started talking about his experience with foster care. Grantaire let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He looked around the room, feeling hairline fractures erupt across the tenuous relationship that he had with Enjolras, and all the other Amis. Grantaire knew he was different, knew he couldn’t believe in what these idealists thought, but he thought that he had been okay with that. In this moment, he realized with a stunning clarity that he would never be able to come to peace with that, something would always be there, lurking, grating against the pit of his stomach.

 

Grantaire didn’t wait until the meeting was over. He knew when to throw in the towel, when it was time to cut ties, to desert the sinking ship. It was what had kept him alive thus far. He didn’t look back once. He left before the topic of foster care was even settled, his seat conspicuously empty.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras was distracted. Every time he had a meeting, he felt a chipping in his chest as his eyes scanned the room, a certain empty chair standing out to him, each day making his heart heavier and heavier. His gaze skittered away from the gaping hole every time he caught his eyes wandering in that direction of their own accord. _What had he done wrong?_

It was obvious that it was something that Enjolras had done, that it was connected somehow to the fact that their views didn’t exactly match, in fact they happened to collide and clash and that was another headache altogether. For now, he just wanted to know that Grantaire was okay, and that it wasn’t entirely Enjolras’ fault that Grantaire had left. He wasn’t an idiot; he sensed the strained tension that eddied through the meetings, the worried glances shot his way by Combeferre and towards the empty chair by Joly and Bahorel. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Grantaire was supposed to make pamphlets for the group, he was supposed to bring laughter, not leave.

 

Something about Grantaire’s hopeless eyes wouldn’t let him go; they held him fast and kept him up at night. What was Grantaire hiding? Enjolras felt that he had only gotten a facet of Grantaire, that there were layers upon layers of Grantaire, each more intricate than the last, and something about that revelation reeled him in. He wanted to discover Grantaire and the secrets behind the swirling blue-green of his eyes and the white scars he remembered from the gym. He was curiously hooked on Grantaire, and he wanted Grantaire back.

 

So he did what he always did when he wanted advice. He approached Combeferre one morning, an offertory coffee in his right hand, and some for himself in the left. “What did I do wrong?” he asked, before Combeferre had even accepted the coffee, a knowing glint in his eye as he saw him approach.

 

Combeferre took the time to take a sip of coffee, his eyes scanning him deliberately. Enjolras tried not to fidget, and quickly sat down. “I am correct in assuming this is about Grantaire?” Enjolras nodded, but it wasn’t needed, since Combeferre had already moved on. “Well, I assume he got somewhat bothered by the talk of foster care, especially from you, a white guy who hasn’t even been through the system. Not everyone can have the faith that you do, Enjolras. You need to understand that this is a lot harder on his side, ok?”

 

“Wait, are you saying that Grantaire was in foster care?” Enjolras wouldn’t be surprised, but his curiosity was piqued.

 

“I think that Grantaire’s life story would be best heard from him, but I am under the impression that he was not in foster care. Bahorel has mentioned Grantaire’s parents in a context that suggests that they are still alive but that Grantaire no longer has contact with them because of some strain in the relationship when he was young.”

 

“Oh.” Enjolras was studying his cup of coffee intently, trying to get the seeping warmth to heat him up; he was suddenly cold at the change in conversation. _What did Grantaire have to hide?_ A comfortable silence stretched between them, but Combeferre didn’t return to his book, he knew that the conversation wasn’t finished.

 

“Talk to him. Ask him if you made him uncomfortable, and what you can do to avoid repeat the same mistake later. You’re never going to be friends with him if you make him feel uncomfortable.” Combeferre said it casually, while stirring his coffee slowly, his spoon making the occasional tinkling noise in his mug.

 

Enjolras considered it, chewing his bottom lip as he played with the handle of his mug. “You’re probably right. Do you really think I make him uncomfortable?” Combeferre gave no answer, just took off his glasses and began polishing them in his sweater. Enjolras got up and left the table deep in thought, leaving Combeferre at the table, just as equally lost in thought, his glasses forgotten as he watched Enjolras’ blurry figure leave the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


	5. Back To The Old House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly has a birthday party, Grantaire comes to a decision, and...Enjolras considers him a friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so sorry for the wait but let me tell you I cranked this out in like two hours. A huge shoutout to my amazing friends Jamie and Julianna who agreed to beta this and also stuck with me through insane typing and mac and cheese at one in the morning. They were nice enough not to murder me after this chapter. Mostly because they were too far away to. Absence does truly make the heart grow found. Chapter name from The Smiths song of course.

Although Grantaire swore to himself that he was done with the revolutionary group, it was only a matter of time before he found himself drawn back. Grantaire was surprised that he lasted the three weeks it took for Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet’s combined efforts to get him to finally crumble. The only reason he was even going, he reminded himself, was because it wasn’t an Amis meeting. It was a get together of friends to celebrate Joly’s birthday. Grantaire couldn’t really say no to Joly’s puppy eyes and Bossuet glared at him over Joly’s head when he asked Grantaire. That was almost more terrifying than Bahorel’s equally petrifying expression and folded arms. Grantaire sighed and gave in, knowing that he would be the most horrible of people if he said no to Joly’s birthday party, though he knew that the amis would be there. It was surprising to Grantaire how much he had come to miss them, Combeferre’s calming voice as he reasoned through arguments, Courfeyrac’s dramatic flair, Jehan’s soft smiles, and Feuilly’s biting sarcasm in response to Bahorel’s antics. How could he miss people he barely knew? Grantaire didn’t let himself get close to anyone, mostly because it complicated things considerably, and he never really liked that vulnerability. Especially now with Pierre, he found it increasingly more satisfying to isolate himself from others, finding it easier not to have to come up with excuses and explanations, and saving him the worry of having to act normal every second of the time.

 

So it was with great apprehension that he headed over to Joly and Bossuet’s place, the evening light fading from the streets and clenched hands in his pockets. He had explained that he was going to Joly and Bossuet’s to Pierre, and had faced an interrogation, though it wasn’t as bad as usual. Pierre had met Joly and Bossuet before and didn’t appear to feel all too threatened by them, as well as judging them not worth his time. Pierre had asked Grantaire to be home by midnight and it hadn’t been phrased as a question. Grantaire had understood and had burned the reminder into his brain because he really could not afford a fight with Pierre at the moment. Joly and Bossuet’s place wasn’t too far from his, about a twenty-minute walk if one was walking with a purpose. It was a brick apartment building on the third floor. Grantaire took the stairs two at a time and was promptly let into the cozy flat.

 

Joly and Bossuet’s flat was very, well, “Joly-and-Bossuet” for lack of a better word. There were floral curtains at the windows, and creaky wooden floors. All the doors were painted a different color, blue, green, even a pale mauve. Everything was also lightly child proofed because Bossuet tended to get into trouble. However, it was a nice, homey, if a little quirky, flat that Grantaire had immediately felt comfortable in when he had first paid them a visit. Courfeyrac and Jehan were already there, sitting on the slightly worn but quite colorful and fluffy rug and talking about their latest escapade in the university cafeteria. It hit Grantaire in the gut exactly how different they were and he almost turned back around and walked out but he steeled himself, sucking in a breath and straightening his spine. Courfeyrac and Jehan both looked up in that moment and there was a slight moment of surprise and hesitation before Jehan threw himself at Grantaire. Grantaire had not been expecting that and stumbled back a bit, surprised at the strength in the wiry arms wrapped around him. “Don’t ever do that again.” Jehan said firmly into Grantaire’s ear.

 

Courfeyrac sighed loudly and pried Jehan off of Grantaire, which was easier said than done, before dramatically swooning into Grantaire’s arms. “Don’t you dare leave me again, Grantaire! I was out of my mind with worry and you left me here with just Enjolras for company, and do you know how terribly inconsiderate he is when he’s stressed and worried? He spilled my hair products all over the sink one morning when he was flailing around doing who knows what, probably practicing some speech, but the point is _he spilled my hair product, Grantaire_ , do you understand what a tragedy this is? I had to go to class without styling my hair, which means that I had to wear a hat, but none of them matched my outfit, so I had to change to a different outfit that I didn’t like that much and long story short, Enjolras ruined my entire day because of how worried he was over you, _never_ subjugate me to that again!”

 

Grantaire didn’t even know that it was possible to say that much in one breath of air, so he was taken aback by that, not to mention the fact that Courfeyrac was still fake-fainting in his arms, and he was getting kind of heavy, but Grantaire’s mind had gone blank at the insinuation that Enjolras would have been worried about him, so much so that he accidentally dropped Courfeyrac. To be fair, he had to have seen that coming when he threw himself at Grantaire, but he had come to realize that Courfeyrac didn’t necessarily care about the ramifications of his capers. So Grantaire just laughed and flopped down on the floor next to Courfeyrac as he took up complaining again, now with the addition of the betrayal of trust that he had received from Grantaire and how he had been left ‘lying on the cold hard ground.’ Jehan and Grantaire exchanged increasingly exasperated looks that were interspersed with the occasional comment by Jehan that it was ok, he deserved better and that his Prince or Princess Charming would come. Grantaire was still chuckling when Combeferre arrived with Feuilly and judging by the fact that they didn’t even blink at Courfeyrac’s fake sobbing, this happened relatively often.

 

The rest of the Amis filed in slowly after that, cheerfully wishing Joly a happy birthday and distributing hugs and kisses with everyone, adding their present to the small pile and their contribution to the meal on the coffee table. Unsurprisingly, it mostly consisted of desserts, chips, and alcohol. This was Grantaire’s kind of party. He even met a few new people like Eponine, who Bahorel had introduced to him, saying that they would get along swimmingly. Eponine was an olive-skinned beauty that Grantaire would totally attempt to hit on if she didn’t somewhat scare him and also, you know, the small fact of Pierre plus the Enjolras thing (God, his life had turned into a mess so quickly). Grantaire decided that they would indeed be friends when she nicked a bottle of vodka that she claimed would be for the two of them alone and then turned around and started talking about tattoos with him. He also met Musichetta, who he gathered both Joly and Bossuet were crushing on through Courfeyrac’s overdramatic winking and rib nudging. Courfeyrac also introduced him to Marius, a mousy, shy young student who was also studying law with Courfeyrac and reminded him somehow of a slightly confused otter. The baggy sweaters with floppy sleeves definitely didn’t help him in that area.

 

He found himself actually having a good time, but he kept an eye on the door, waiting for Enjolras to appear. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure what he would say or do when Enjolras arrived, and to be honest, he was rather uncertain how he even felt about seeing Enjolras again. Something had definitely changed. Grantaire knew now that he had romanticized Enjolras all too much, placing imagined qualities in him that then forced him to expect too much from Enjolras, a person that Grantaire barely knew. He knew that Enjolras wasn’t perfect, which he had objectively known before, but he had been forced to accept that his imagination had run wild with Enjolras.

 

The word maybe was such a dangerous word. Grantaire rolled it around in his mouth, tasting the possibilities wrapped up inside that word on his tongue, tasting slightly like gluten free crackers and vodka. He took in his surroundings, surveying the room and the people that appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely and felt a small spark of hope flicker to life in his chest. Maybe. Maybe it was possible to have friends and not constantly worry that he would end up hurt. If any group of friends would stick with him through thick and thin, it would be this motley crew of slightly insane and depraved people that managed to love each other like family. And it was because of this that he came to his decision.

 

Grantaire had to put aside his feelings for Enjolras. A relationship with him was nowhere even close to a possibility, because from what he had seen at the meetings that man wasn’t interested in relationships. Every other ami he knew was either in a relationship, painfully in love (Combeferre and Courfeyrac, cough, cough), in a relationship with their work (Feuilly), completely not interested (Jehan) or someone who bounced around a lot (this could be Bahorel or Courfeyrac, Grantaire was pretty impressed at their seduction abilities). Enjolras had never once mentioned someone, and neither had any of the other Amis, even Courfeyrac, who was always harping on _someone’s_ love life. There was not even a remote chance for Grantaire, plus he had Pierre.

 

This was the first family that Grantaire had ever had. Sure, they had differing beliefs and sometimes it exploded in their faces. But they _wanted_ him there, had invited him to this celebration, and that was a dangerous and intoxicating thought for Grantaire who had only ever felt wanted from Pierre. Grantaire took a deep breath, smiling at Courfeyrac’s attempt to dance with a somewhat clumsy Marius across the room. Grantaire would rather have his friends than Enjolras in any case. If the others discovered these feelings, they would probably side with Enjolras, which was only fair because they’d known him for longer. They wouldn’t abandon him but it would change things, making them uncomfortable not to mention humiliating Grantaire. No, the best way was to keep it simple and content himself with Pierre.

 

With one last glance at the impromptu dance floor in the living room, which now had Combeferre and Courfeyrac leaving absolutely no room for Jesus, and Eponine trying to teach Marius basic coordination with a half empty bottle of vodka in hand and Marius’ floppy sweater sleeve in the other, Grantaire slipped out on to the balcony for a quick smoke. The night air felt gloriously cool on his flushed cheeks and Grantaire watched his breath puff out towards the stars as he fumbled for his cigarettes. His hands quickly started to feel numb and Grantaire wished he had brought at least a scarf and a pair of gloves out. He was just considering fetching them when he heard a raucous cheer in the living room behind him. He grinned turning to see what Bossuet had broken now, but instead saw a familiar golden flash of curls and Grantaire whirled back around and sat down, deciding he could probably permit himself two cigarettes.

 

He knew that it was going to be hard to get Enjolras out of his head, but now he had a reason: his friends. Grantaire would sacrifice his obsession for the greater good. Cold seeped through his jeans and soon his butt and thighs were starting to ache, but he refused to go back inside, convincing himself that he just needed air and time and Enjolras would quit haunting his head. He watched the slow night traffic below him, watched the moon glitter off of the Seine in the distance and observed the activities of people in lighted windows across the way. He felt himself begin to relax and lit himself another cigarette. At this point he had lost count of cigarettes.

 

He heard the door creak behind him, but he kept his eyes trained on the window across the way that held a mother and child, reading a book together. Grantaire had no such memories of his mother, but he could take a good guess that the man standing behind him did. Some people had all the luck. “Mind if I have one this time?”

 

“They’re bad for you, you know.” Grantaire replied, a slight smile on his lips, but passing him the pack of cigarettes anyway. He kept his eyes on the window across the way as Enjolras sat down, straddling the little cement barrier that kept people from falling off the balcony. Grantaire was not at all worried by the red converse dangling over the street. Enjolras held out his hand for the lighter and Grantaire turned to give it to him before mirroring Enjolras, straddling the barrier, a mere two feet from where Enjolras was sitting. Enjolras met his eyes and held them as he lit the cigarette, his face inscrutable. He set the lighter down between them, perfectly in the middle of their two bodies.

 

“Aren’t you cold?” Enjolras asked, his hands tugging his scarf tighter around his neck, his cigarette flopping between his lips.

 

“Aren’t you against smoking?” Grantaire retorted, a small smile molding his lips at Enjolras’ exasperated expression.

 

“I’m not a saint, Grantaire. I picked them up to get back at my parents but then quit when Joly started bringing SMOKING KILLS signs to meetings.”

 

Grantaire let out a laugh at that. “Joly isn’t very happy with my habits, but I think he hasn’t quite found a very good way to convince me to stop yet, seeing as I am not the type to concern myself with protests and rallies.”

Enjolras smiled slightly at that. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking a slow drag that was probably illegal in most countries and blowing out of the side of his mouth, his brow creased as he considered his next words.

 

“You want to talk about the last meeting, don’t you?” Grantaire cut to the chase. He knew there was a reason Enjolras was seeking him out. He wasn’t surprised when Enjolras nodded again, taking another drag from his cigarette.

 

“How did you know?” Enjolras avoided his eyes as he tapped his cigarette carefully, daintily, delicately, over the edge of the barrier, the ash falling gracefully from view towards the street.

 

“No one else mentioned it. I guessed there was a reason for that, it being that you wanted to speak with me about it first.”

 

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully. “You are a smart cookie, R. Top marks.”

 

Grantaire laughed before flicking his cigarette. Enjolras was dainty and roundabout. Grantaire was flippant and blunt. “So, what is there to say?”

 

“Well, there’s a lot to say, but the most important thing to say is I’m sorry.” Enjolras paused, taking a breath, his cigarette forgotten, the smoke swirling towards Grantaire. Grantaire went to speak, to answer sarcastically as he always did when discussing matters involving emotion. Enjolras held his hand up, effectively stopping Grantaire’s words and spiking his curiosity.

 

“Sorry, Grantaire, I want to get this all out. I came from a pretty privileged family. We didn’t have money problems, I got a good education, it was all fine except my parents, well, they aren’t like me, they don’t understand me. They were always more concerned with appearances and their reputation than the important things in life and they kind of neglected me. Because of this, I am pretty crappy at expressing my emotions or having any kind of normal relationship. I mean, that’s the really condensed version and to be honest I am so terrible at handling relationships with others. I had to ask Combeferre why you could be angry with me. I know that I say a lot of things that might be offensive to people who have suffered some of the things that I speak of. I know that as a privileged person, I have no right to speak of a lot of the things that I take on. But Grantaire, I do it because I can’t stand by and watch oppression happen. I have to speak up because people will listen to me. Listen, I know that you are angry at some of the assumptions I make, and you are completely justified. I just wanted to explain myself to you and apologize for anything that I said that might have offended you. I hope that we can continue to be friends so that you can keep me in check. I tend to go overboard sometimes Grantaire, but I never, _never_ , mean to offend the people I’m fighting for.”

 

Grantaire knew that Enjolras was a passionate speaker, had always been drawn to his speeches, but now that it was happening literally right before his eyes and he had Enjolras’ full attention, he felt the full force of Enjolras’ passion. It was a terrifying thing, mighty to behold. His eyes were blazing, his hands gesticulating, the cigarette waving through the night; even his eyebrows somehow articulated Enjolras’ argument. Grantaire knew there was no way that he could say no to Enjolras when he concentrated his full persuasion techniques on Grantaire. He felt his heart beating fast against his chest, keeping time for him as he seemed to have lost all concept of time. He raised his cigarette to his mouth, hoping Enjolras didn’t notice that it was trembling.

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras was uncertain now, his fervor fading and he seemed much more vulnerable than he had a few minutes ago when he had been filled with a glorious purpose.

 

“You consider us friends?” Grantaire hated the weakness in his voice, but he had to know the answer to that question, and when he had left home that night he really hadn’t expected anything like this to happen.

 

Enjolras let out a breath, his face contorting to an expression that Grantaire would say expressed hurt if he didn’t find it so hard to believe that Enjolras actually cared that much about an alcoholic cynic that found it hard to believe anything. “Of course I do Grantaire. You don’t?”

 

Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t know what we are, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras let the silence fall. Grantaire crushed his cigarette which was well past gone by now, and took another one, offering one to Enjolras, which he took with a muttered thank you. He was going to have to buy another pack on the way home at this rate. The click of the lighter seemed awfully loud in the silence that seemed to be impenetrable by the sounds of the city that surrounded them.

 

“Do I make you feel uncomfortable?” The question was asked softly and Enjolras’ eyes were hidden behind a few stray curls, his head bent forward, intently examining a crack in the cement. Grantaire's heart tightened at Enjolras' cautiously vulnerable posture and those whispered words.

 

“Maybe.” Grantaire took a drag of his cigarette and considered his next words, feeling the weight of Enjolras’ gaze on him, knowing that he couldn't stop himself from being honest to Enjolras in this moment, right here, right now. “It scares me how passionate you are about things, Enjolras. I’ve only ever been able to scrounge up enthusiasm a few times in my life and that always blew apart. I just find it so hard to understand how you could care so much day after day, despite setbacks.”

 

“I hear that I’m pretty scary. Courfeyrac tells me that all the time.” Enjolras’ dry tone forces an unexpected laugh from Grantaire’s throat.

 

“That man is brutally honest. Someone has to be around here.” Grantaire looked up at Enjolras grinning, and his heart stopped when he found Enjolras’ eyes on his face, soft and relaxed.

 

“You could be.” The words were almost whispered, a wistful murmur, a prayer.

 

“I could.” Grantaire acquiesced. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew that Enjolras was still holding his gaze and that he seemed to brighten when Grantaire had agreed and he was amazed that he had the capacity to cause a fluctuation in emotion like that in a man such as Enjolras, who seemed to be the person who changed the people surrounding him, the world he lived in, as opposed to Enjolras being affected by the people around him, especially _Grantaire_ , who had never really mattered. It was heady, and Grantaire knew that he would never tire of it. He cleared his throat awkwardly, glad that it was too dark for Enjolras to see what he was sure was his heart on his sleeve, or rather the emotions on his face that he didn’t understand himself.

 

Enjolras opened his mouth again, as if to speak, but the door slammed behind them, causing them both to jump and Enjolras to drop his cigarette, cursing under his breath. Grantaire wanted to laugh at his fumble and yell at the interruption and stop time in order to hear those unspoken words that held so much possibility, but Bahorel had already slung himself over Grantaire’s shoulder, a stinking wave of alcohol accompanying his slurred urgings for Grantaire to come inside for a movie. Enjolras met Grantaire’s gaze and they both rolled their eyes smiling before getting up to go inside. As they stood up to dust off their pants, the nearest church bell began ringing and Grantaire tipped his head slightly, listening to the chimes, the sound reminding him of lonely melancholic afternoons in his childhood.

 

It wasn’t until he made it back inside that he realized that the clock had struck midnight. Swearing under his breath, he quickly made his excuses to the amis who were settling in for a movie, Bahorel and Feuilly taking up a couch for themselves while Combeferre and Courfeyrac squeezed into one seat after fake protestation on both parts. Grantaire desperately ached to stay behind and watch whatever dumb animated movie they were going to watch, but he was already late and knowing Pierre, he was most likely watching the clock. So he excused himself, saying that Pierre probably was worried about him and that he was getting tired (both of which were lies). He kissed Joly on the forehead, wishing him a happy birthday once more and rushing out on the street before he could be talked into staying. He hurried home, wincing at the thought of the apartment waiting for him.

 

He got home in record time and shut the door quietly, attempting to tiptoe in. He was only twenty minutes late, maybe Pierre hadn’t noticed. Of course, luck only got him so far that night. Pierre was waiting on the couch, and when he saw Grantaire, he stood up, crossing his arms. “Do I need to say anything?” He asked, his tone soft and menacing.

 

“Pierre, I know I’m late, but I got distracted, I hurried home as soon as I realized. It’s only twenty minutes, surely that isn’t that bad?” Grantaire was pleading, but he realized it had been a few months since the first strike and he could be due for another one soon.

 

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Pierre slapped him hard across Grantaire’s right cheek. “Are you talking back to me, R?” Pierre was angry now, his voice level having risen to a shout.

 

“No, sorry Pierre, I just-” Grantaire felt the air whoosh out of him as Pierre grabbed Grantaire’s shirt and pulled him forward, his face right up against his.

 

“You do as I say, no if ands or buts,” Pierre growled and saliva sprayed across Grantaire’s aching cheek. He punched Grantaire across the face and Grantaire felt his neck twist under the impact, felt hot blood running down his face. His disorientation made it easy for Pierre to push him to the floor and kick him a few times, accentuating each kick with a word. “You. Will. Do. As. I. Say.” After he was done sending his message, Pierre stood over him, eyeing him with disgust before stepping over him and slamming the bedroom door.

 

Grantaire lay there, feeling the blood drip off his face on to the floor, knowing he was going to have to clean it up before Pierre got up in the morning. If there was anything he learned from his parents, it was that the abuser always hated seeing evidence of the abuse the next day. This was definitely not how he had pictured his night going. He had thought luck was with him thanks to the apology he had received from Enjolras. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure what Enjolras had been trying to prove, but Grantaire like the idea of the new found truce that helped him forget some of the pain in his ribs with each rattling breath he took.

 

Grantaire peeled himself of off the floor slowly, joint by joint. He tiptoed into the bathroom to wash off his face. He grabbed an ice pack mechanically, holding it to his side as he cleaned up the blood from the floor. He didn’t think that his ribs were broken, but they were probably bruised which will be a fucking pain for the next few weeks. But he put into practice yet another thing he learned from his parents: surrendering to the pain meant that the other won, and Grantaire somehow found the will to win that night. He cleaned every last speck of blood off of the floor and even showered. He gritted his teeth through a load of laundry to show Pierre that he wasn’t broken, before collapsing on the couch. No way was he sleeping in bed with Pierre tonight.

 

Before giving in thoroughly to the pain and passing out, Grantaire closes his eyes and remembers the glow of two cigarettes on a lonely balcony in the middle of Paris.

 

  

* * *

 

 

After the movie, nobody moved. Some of the more inebriated Amis had dozed off, much to the relief of the more sober partiers because there were only so many times your mom jokes could be made at a Disney movie before it became tiresome. A small voice broke the silence.

 

“Joly?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Who’s Pierre?”

 

Rustling was heard from Joly and Bossuet’s corner, presumably from sitting up. “Grantaire’s dick boyfriend.”

 

“Oh.” It was soft, surprised, hollow. Silence fell on the room as more of the friends began to shift uncomfortably.

 

“He’s super controlling. It’s not healthy.” This from Bahorel, who despite his earlier drunkenness seemed to have regained some sort of sobriety at the mention of Pierre.

 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to him about it.” Joly again, although louder, as if it had become an open discussion. There was a chorus of agreement from around the room, with varying levels of sleepiness.

 

That was the end of that; people began to settle into sleep, as was tradition at the end of all of the parties that this band of miscreants had. Soon it was quiet and snores began to compete with each other, before a slight figure moved from his spot to cuddle in with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sliding in between them and staring up at the ceiling. There was no rest for the weary that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


	6. Somewhere Weakness Is Our Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's secret can't really stay secret if he is wearing it around. Cosette makes a discovery, Joly has a theory, and Combeferre, as always has the advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a belated Christmas present! I realize it's a little late, but I hope to squeeze in another chapter over break. Thank you again to my amazing betas [Jaimie](http://burned-my-paradise.tumblr.com) and [Julianna](http://tattoedtaire.tumblr.com), who really put up with too much of my shit.

Grantaire awoke to one of the worst hangovers in his life. Except only a very small fraction of the pain he was feeling was actually from any alcohol he had consumed on the previous night, and mostly due to the fact that his ribs were probably bruised and every time he breathed, Grantaire wanted to die. He came to awareness from the sounds of Pierre moving around in the kitchen and realized that he was probably late to work. He didn’t move, but deigned to crack open his left eyelid enough to see the sunlight filtering through the room and groaned. Pierre must have heard him, because he heard footsteps approaching and Grantaire panicked, pulling himself upright into a seated position. He couldn’t allow Pierre to see his weakness. His ribs screamed in protest, but he ignored it, not allowing himself to make any noise and pretending to rub his eyes from sleepiness in order to cover up how he moved gingerly and cringed at abrupt movements. He reevaluated his position and decided that he was considerably less hung over than he had thought and could in fact, feel a hell of a lot better right now if he had a drink.

 

“Morning,” Pierre’s voice was soft, tender, and it was about as pleasant to Grantaire as nails on a chalkboard. “I called you in sick for work since you’re feeling under the weather,” Pierre continued, and Grantaire shot to his feet, eyes finally skittering over to Pierre, dressed in a perfectly crisped suit and not a hair out of place. Grantaire felt nauseous, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the absolute sliminess of Pierre’s appearance, or the fact that he really was feeling ill.

 

“No.” Grantaire’s voice was raspy, but he met Pierre’s eyes. “I’m feeling fine. Call them and let them know I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll just shower and then be on my way.”

 

“Are you sure, R?” Pierre seemed somewhat concerned, and Grantaire absolutely hated the split second moment when he almost gave in, almost sank back down on the couch and called it a day. But he didn’t. He just brushed past Pierre and into the bathroom. Pierre would get the message. As soon as he got into the bathroom, he braced himself against the sink, and took a few deep breaths before slowly letting his eyes travel up to the mirror. For a second, he only saw the blue green of his eyes but the deep purple bruising around his eyes, and the swelling of his right cheek shattered the moment. Grantaire looked like shit, hair wildly sticking up in different directions, the dark circles under his eyes blending into the bruising of his eye, stubble quickly turning to scruff, bloodshot eyes, and he felt like he had gotten run over by a train. Grantaire went to pull off his shirt and hissed at the sudden movement before gingerly finding a way to take off his shirt in a manner that would cause the least amount of pain. Purple bruises map a pathway across his chest and diverge down his sides. Grantaire determinedly ignores the marks and finishes the task of stripping and gets into the shower severely wishing that he had thought to take a painkiller before he had embarked on this feat, but then amended that because he wouldn’t let Pierre see him taking pain killers. Grantaire carefully washed himself under a lukewarm spray since Pierre had already take all the hot water, got out and went into their room to get his clothes.

 

It appeared that Pierre had already left for work since the flat seemed less menacing and a peaceful silence had descended, muffling the memories of last night. Grantaire quickly threw on some clean clothes and ran his hand through his hair before making his way as briskly as he could to work, munching slowly and painfully on a banana so that his stomach would be less angry with him. All in all, he only arrived at work an hour later than usual, and his boss seemed to be understanding, as Grantaire had been doing well recently, and it is also hard to yell at someone who looks like he had a serious run-in with some stairs or maybe a door. Grantaire didn’t want to think about what his boss thought had happened to him, and was glad that he didn’t ask him any questions, just tossed him an apron and moved on with his life.

 

Apparently coming to work with a shiner earned you a lot of popularity. Grantaire should do it more often. He enjoyed deflecting questions by telling increasingly outrageous stories that earned him a lot in tips, though his coworker Cosette was not very happy with him, giving him dirty looks over the counter she was cleaning that implied that she would be having words with him later. Grantaire pretended not to notice and he could really use an Irish coffee right now because he hadn’t even remembered to take any fucking painkillers before he left home and Pierre hadn’t even been there. This day had already made the List of Top Ten Most Stressful Days of his life, up there with the day he’d gotten kicked out at the ripe age of fourteen and into the streets, and he hadn’t even made it to 10 o’clock. He felt his mask slipping by the time his break rolled around and Grantaire figured if alcohol was off the table, he could at least have a cigarette. He makes it all the way to the alleyway before he realizes that he and Enjolras had smoked all of his cigarettes yesterday.

 

Grantaire groaned and slid down the wall until he was sitting. Part of him had thought that entire episode had been a dream, but the absence of his cigarettes proved the veracity of what he had previously assumed was a hallucination. He hadn’t had a whole lot of time to focus on separating dreams from reality this morning, as he had run through it and his brain had been understandably otherwise occupied. Grantaire closed his eyes, tilting his head back far enough for his head to rest against the rough brick and breathed. He remembered Enjolras, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and the orange glow of both their cigarettes reflected in his eyes, almost pitch black in the darkness. He remembered the small sound of his breathing, how he had laughed at Grantaire’s jibes, how Enjolras had wanted to be friends with Grantaire. Grantaire exhaled shakily. He knew that he had vowed he wouldn’t allow Enjolras to come before his friends. He still felt that resolve in his heart as he remembered Joly’s giggle and Marius’ floppy sweater paws and Jehan’s flower hair, and Courfeyrac’s overly dramatic flare. He remembered the glittering Seine in the distance paling in comparison to Enjolras, and felt that it was an apt description of his attempts to forget Enjolras. In comparison to Enjolras, Pierre, his life, his entire existence seemed pale and insubstantial. He could understand why Enjolras seemed to think he could change the world, it was because with him everything was fuller, more possible, it seemed that life was more than it was with others. And it was with that color that Grantaire had come back to his apartment, where the colors were quickly muddied as Pierre shattered Grantaire’s giddiness in one fell swoop. The fact that Grantaire’s world had become fuzzy once again did not change the brilliance of the image imprinted in his mind, of Enjolras on the balcony, open, close, warm.

 

Grantaire had known that Enjolras would be dangerous as soon as he had laid eyes on him, and it appears that his instincts were spot on. Unfortunately for any sort of caveman Grantaire, he was most terrible at following his instincts. Grantaire knew at this point there was no use in crying over spilled milk. It was over and done. Grantaire was involved in some form with Enjolras, for better or for worse. At this point, Grantaire just has to muddle his way through this “friends” thing with Enjolras and spend more time with the rest of the amis, not to mention keep his fingers crossed that Pierre never, _ever_ found out about Enjolras, because if there was anything about Pierre, it was that he always had to assert his dominance in some form or other, and that would be dangerous when it came to Enjolras as he doesn’t take anyone’s shit. Plus, there was the teensy problem of him being abusive. Grantaire sighed. So much for living a simple life.

 

“You look like you could use a smoke.” Grantaire tensed, knowing what was coming, and he cracked his eye open enough to affirm that yes, it was about to get nasty. Cosette was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head cocked and an expression that was halfway between worry and anger painted on to her face.

 

“I could,” Grantaire said shortly. “Unfortunately, one of my hot blond friends smoked my last one. I didn’t stop him, because, well, as previously stated, he is hot.” Cosette remained unimpressed, but a pack of cigarettes thudded against his worn pair of Converse sneakers and Grantaire sighed in approval. “You’re a saint.”

 

Cosette moved to sit across from him and Grantaire was exposed to a higher intensity of her scrutinizing glare, and the heat of her anger. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?” 

 

“I’m assuming you are referring to this amazing trophy I won last night?” Grantaire inquired, pointing a finger at his eye as he absentmindedly fumbled for his lighter with his other hand.

 

“No Grantaire, I was wondering why you were smoking my cigarettes.” Grantaire could practically feel the sarcasm radiating from her rigid posture. He didn’t understand why she was so angry about a bruise that she didn’t even know the origin of.

 

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Grantaire deflected, flicking the lighter and lighting his cigarette. He gave a relieved sigh and sat back, finally holding a cigarette between his lips.

 

“Grantaire.” Something about her exhausted tone losing its wrath sparked curiosity in Grantaire, but he tamped it down. Cosette was a good colleague, and he enjoyed working with her, but they never really talked about their personal lives with each other. Grantaire knew that crossing into that border could make things awkward and was also irreversible. Once they knew each other outside of work, he’d be getting invitations and questions that he didn’t need.

 

“It’s fine Cosette. I just got in a fight at a bar.” Grantaire was surprised at how easily the lie slipped through his lips, and rung clearly through the chilly air.

 

“I’m calling bullshit. If that was it, you would’ve told that story instead of coming up with a dumber and dumber story every time. Also, it’s not just your face, you’re holding yourself super stiff. You hurt something else too. I’d guess your ribs.” Cosette was studiously avoiding his eyes, watching the smoke curl up into the air.

 

“So maybe it was a few guys. Why are you so uptight about this?” Grantaire flicked some ash to the pavement and it seemed to break Cosette out of her reverie. She met his eyes, her blue eyes startlingly haunted for a few seconds before she managed to cover it with a blasé expression.

 

“Because abuse is always most dangerous when no one knows what’s happening. Trust me, I know.” Oh shit. This was going exactly where Grantaire didn’t want it to go. He broke the pause quickly.

 

“It’s ok, you don’t have to answer the question Cosette, just tell me to fuck off.”

 

‘I just want to know if everything is ok at home.” Cosette said it quietly, but there was no doubt that this wasn’t a request or a demand. It was a flat-out order. For some reason, Grantaire found himself shaking his head before he even realized what he was doing. He stopped quickly, trying to play it off as a drag from his cigarette, but he knew Cosette wasn’t fooled.

 

“Well, I mean, what is ok? Everyone’s definition of ok is different and it’s really a pretty subjective kind of thing−”

 

“Grantaire, you and I both know that’s crap. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. I just want to let you know that you have people who love you and would help you no matter what.” Cosette stood up brusquely, her expression pinched and gentle at the same time, and Grantaire really needed to learn some tricks from Cosette, because he got bested with absolutely no effort. A piece of paper fluttered into his lap. “My number. In case you need anything. Don’t think that you’re alone, ok? Promise me that if you’re in serious trouble you’ll let me know.”

 

Grantaire swallowed and picked up the piece of paper. It was trembling in his hand, and he knew Cosette had seen it. He nods quickly, not letting himself look at her. “Grantaire.” Her voice was like that of a scolding mother, chiding and concerned at the same time. Grantaire found himself believing her, that she would be there for him. If the past few minutes were any indication, it was pretty clear that she didn’t back down from a challenge.

 

“I promise.” Grantaire’s words come out surprisingly strong and Grantaire takes heart in the fact that one person had an idea of what was going on and the world hadn’t ended and Grantaire hadn’t died. He was relieved; he wanted to see how this “friends” thing with Enjolras was going to work out.

 

Cosette gave him a satisfied smile. “Keep the pack, R, I don’t smoke.” With that, she turned and went back inside, signaling the end of his break, her footsteps quickly fading. She didn’t smoke? And she _knew_ he’d need a cigarette? Damn, this girl was good. He needed to keep an eye on her, she was slippery. Grantaire enjoyed the last few tugs of his cigarette before letting it fall to the ground and taking vicious pleasure in crunching it under his foot, and following Cosette back in.

 

His little heart-to-heart with Cosette did admittedly make him feel better and the next hour flew by, even though the rush was over. Cosette didn’t treat him any differently, didn’t give him unwanted pity, and acted as if everything was normal. Cosette was possibly the most amazing person on Earth at the moment. Grantaire even got a few knock-knock jokes in that Cosette hadn’t heard yet. All in all, it was going great until a familiar face walked in. Grantaire spotted him as soon as the bell tinkled for a costumer and gasped, moving quickly to hide behind the pastries, before hissing at the pain the sudden movement had caused to his ribs. Unfortunately, this averted Joly to the fact that he was there, as well as the damned recognizable hair and the fact that Joly knew he worked here. Grantaire admitted defeat when he heard Joly ask after him and Cosette saying that he was hiding away somewhere. That only made him look more guilty.

 

The double take that Joly did when he saw Grantaire emerge would almost be comical if it also didn’t mean that Grantaire was in deep shit. “Grantaire,” Joly breathed.

 

Grantaire waved his fingers at him as he made his way to the cash. “What can I get for you jolly Joly?”

 

Joly didn’t even crack a smile at that, and he knew then that he was in serious trouble. He felt Cosette’s eyes on the situation, watching and monitoring to make sure that this wasn’t someone that would hurt Grantaire. He felt a rush of gratitude for her, and took strength in the fact that he wasn’t alone. “When did that happen?” Joly asked in clipped tones.

 

Grantaire shrugged casually. “Yesterday.”

 

“What did you do?” Joly’s tone brooked no argument; he wanted answers and he was getting them.

 

“Got into a bar fight.” Grantaire tried to play it off casually as he straightened the napkins on the counter, attempting to avoid eye contact without seeming like he was hiding something.

 

“Was that before or after you got home from my party?” Joly’s eyes were steely and Grantaire could tell he wasn’t buying it. Goddamnit, why did he have such amazing friends?

 

“Listen Joly, just leave it ok? It’s been a long day and I don’t want to get into it.”

 

“Please tell me you at least got those ribs looked at.” Joly was all business, but Grantaire could tell by his intonation that if Joly were any less worried, he’d be rolling his eyes.

 

“How did you know about the ribs?”

 

“I’ll take it as a no, then. When are you off?” Joly had loosened up a bit, his shoulders looking less tense, but there were still worry lines by his eyes and a wrinkle in his brow.

 

“A few hours.” Grantaire played it off as casual, and this is why he found it so hard to have friends, because he didn’t know how to handle people actually caring for him.

 

No, you have to get off now. You’re coming home with me.”

 

“Oh, sir, I don’t put out till third date.” Joly’s usually smiling mouth was set, and Grantaire knew it wasn’t the time, but he was a terrible, terrible person who didn’t know how to accept help with other people.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ get cheeky with me, Grantaire. You come home with me now or I’ll cause a scene. I have to check your ribs, at least.” If eyes could shoot lasers, Joly’s would have completely obliterated Grantaire before this conversation even started.

 

“No offense Joly, but you kind of are already making a scene. It’s not good for business, you know.”

 

Joly looked around, seeming surprised that there were a few customers looking at them with varying levels of interest. He lowered his voice apologetically, but his tone was no less firm or insistent. “I am not kidding Grantaire. Don’t try me. I have Bossuet as a boyfriend, I am immune to embarrassment.”

 

And damn if Joly hadn’t hit the nail on the head. Joly wasn’t afraid of making a scene, and Grantaire, contrary to popular belief, would rather fade into the background and not have people looking at him. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Cosette chimed in just then saying, “I would be right behind him, Grantaire. You didn’t tell me they hadn’t been looked at. If you don’t leave in five minutes, I’m taking this up with our boss.”

 

Grantaire knew that he was fighting a losing battle, and sighed before nodding. “What will you tell the boss if I leave now?” Grantaire asked Cosette, who just rolled her eyes.

 

“Oh ye of little faith, I have the boss under my thumb.” Of course she did. Grantaire was hardly surprised. He kissed her cheek goodbye, which was a surprise even to him, before hanging up his apron and following Joly into the chilly winter air. The walk to Joly’s was somewhat tense, but Joly stayed right next to him the entire way. As they arrived at Joly’s apartment, Joly turned to him. “Are you okay going upstairs?”

 

Grantaire snorted in indignation. “Of course I can Joly, I am not fragile; I’m just a little banged up.” Joly made a tsking noise in the back of his throat and moved his hand away from the small of Grantaire’s back, where he’d been guiding Grantaire into his building. Grantaire did get up the stairs eventually, though it was a slow and painful process. Grantaire had thought that as the day wore on, he’d be able to handle the pain better, but it turns out that with each passing minute, the pain wracking his body became more intense. His body felt stiff and useless and Grantaire was pretty frustrated with the entire situation.

 

Joly had a medicinal bag out and Grantaire on the couch within seconds of them entering his apartment. It was funny to think that less than 12 hours ago, he’s been in this very room, not experiencing any physical pain whatsoever. Joly’s jaw was working as he pulled Grantaire’s shirt off and if Grantaire had been any more himself, he’d have found the breath to make a sex joke somewhere, but he didn’t have it in him. “I’m going to ask this one last time, Grantaire. Who did this to you?”

 

“Seriously, Joly? Just leave it. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that you’re doing this for me, but it’s really complicated and I’d rather not get into right now as you perform surgery over my body.”

 

Joly huffed, and straightened to look him straight on in the eyes. “Did Pierre do this to you, R?”

 

Grantaire had to think fast. “Joly, seriously, it’s not worth it. Just let it go.”

 

“I mean it, Grantaire. Did Pierre hit you?” Joly’s hands were on his shoulders and he was squeezing them firmly and Grantaire winced a little.

 

“For fuck’s sake, _no_ , Joly. Why don’t you just get on with it and leave Pierre out of this, ok? This was because of my own stupidity.” Grantaire shoved Joly’s hands of his shoulders, and there was an uncomfortable silence in which only the sound of their heavy breathing could be heard. Grantaire immediately regretted raising his voice at Joly, who was only trying to help, and he could see that Joly was feeling some awkwardness towards how pushy he had been. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to−”

 

“I shouldn’t have−” they start at the same time, and like that, the silence is broken and they start giggling before Grantaire remembers that it hurts to do that. “Ok, first things first, I’m getting you some painkillers,” Joly said, moving away and towards the kitchen. Joly performed a medical examination, wrapped up his ribs, gave Grantaire some salve for his bruises and also gave him a bottle of heavy duty painkillers, to be “used in moderation, Grantaire, you’re already addicted to enough.”

 

The tense moments from earlier in the afternoon were forgotten as they cuddled on Joly’s couch and watched some Parks and Rec through Netflix, until Grantaire began to suggest that he should get home. He thanked Joly for his care and company and left in high spirits, comforted by the fact that he and Joly had spent some time together and buoyed by a small bubble of love trapped in his purple chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Grantaire wondered if Joly suspected Pierre. Would it change their relationship if Joly knew the truth? How would Joly’s view of him change? As Grantaire put one foot in front of the other on his way home, he pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the kindnesses he had received today, and amended his List of Top Ten Most Stressful Days, removing this day because it had shown him a pair of true friends that had put time aside, or a cigarette in Cosette’s case, to show him how much they cared. On his doorstep, he found one last act of kindness today that may have bumped this day to the List of Most Surprising Days. A pack of cigarettes rested on the doorknob with a small handwritten note, in very neat cursive Grantaire noticed. _I borrowed this from a friend last night. Thought he deserved some form of recompense._

 

Yes, today had a surprising turn of events, but by far the most surprising to Grantaire, was that people did indeed care.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras was working on a paper on the living room couch when he heard a banging on his door. Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged glances. Combeferre slowly got up to open the door, letting in a fuming Joly. Enjolras sat up straight and set down his laptop on the coffee table. Joly rarely got angry, so clearly something was wrong. Joly huffed before throwing himself spread-eagled on the floor. Combeferre nodded. “I’ll go make some tea,” he said as he headed back towards the kitchen.

 

“It’s Grantaire.” Joly’s voice was muffled. Enjolras straightened his shirt, and wondered why his attention was so caught by Joly’s words.

 

“Oh? What is he up to now? I hope it doesn’t involve camels.” Enjolras was intrigued at what Grantaire could possibly be up to now, as he always seemed to be in motion when he saw him, yet he didn't understand the sarcasm in his tone.

 

“No, it involves bruised ribs and a fucking black eye.” Joly had rolled over now to look at Enjolras as he was speaking. Enjolras wasn’t sure if Joly was joking, but judging by the serious expression, he was most likely being sincere. Combeferre re-entered the room with some tea. Enjolras really had no idea how Combeferre made tea so fast. Did he have water perpetually boiling for when a crisis inevitably landed at his doorstep? Was he a sorcerer? The world may never know.

 

“Why? Is he ok?” Combeferre sounded concerned, his gravelly voice tended to do that. Enjolras had yet to unstick his throat, and why was he thinking of Combeferre as a sorcerer when Grantaire was hurt, what was wrong with him?

 

“The only reason I know is because I went to the coffee place he worked at and he saw me. He probably would have avoided meetings and seeing us until he was healed up. If I hadn’t seen him, we might have never known. How often does this happen, do you think? Is it the first time? It can’t be. I always knew there was something slimy about Pierre.”

 

“Whoa, Joly, hold on. I’m not following. How’s Pierre involved in this?” Enjolras was sure that his confusion was evident in his voice, and both Joly and Combeferre look at him curiously. He shrugs, and glares at them defensively. “What? I’m not allowed to ask after Grantaire?”

 

“Well I just wasn’t expecting it. Anyway, I think Pierre is the one who did it to him for being out late last night.” Joly’s voice was firm and certain, though his expression expressed his utter helplessness when it came to how to deal with this.

 

“What did Grantaire say it was?” Combeferre asked, taking the sensible route. Which was good, because Enjolras didn’t know what to do with himself. He caught himself twisting his sleeves around clenched hands and forced himself to stop.

 

“Grantaire claims he got into a bar fight, but the timing to that is all off, because he left ours late last night, and he didn’t have any bruises on his knuckles from self defense, and I know that whenever Grantaire gets beaten in a bar fight, which is uncommon, he doesn’t go down without at least throwing a few punches.”

 

Enjolras exhaled shakily. Grantaire? In an abusive relationship? He didn’t seem the type of guy who would take shit from people, though Grantaire was hard to pinpoint for Enjolras. His blustering personality and exuberant self-confidence were often at odds with his cynicism and overt self-deprecating comments and Enjolras had stopped trying to figure out what exactly goes through Grantaire’s head, well, yesterday, during their tentative truce. Enjolras stood up suddenly, unable to sit still anymore, and he knew that Joly and Combeferre were watching him warily, but he had to move. He began to pace around the room, looking out the window, around the room, his hands, anywhere but at Joly and Combeferre as he tried to decide what he was even thinking.

 

“Well, that does make the case for domestic abuse stronger. Have they been having problems from what you’ve seen?” Combeferre’s voice was calm, scientific. He was checking off boxes and solving a puzzle. Enjolras couldn’t wrap his head around the situation at all. How did Grantaire not know that he deserved so much more than someone who didn’t understand the treasure he had for a partner? Granted, Enjolras didn’t know Grantaire a whole lot, but he had gleaned that Grantaire gave his everything to his friends and was very loyal to those he loved. And that was a very precious quality in anyone.

 

“Well, Pierre is super controlling and is verbally abusive. I’d suspected that he had been physically abusive before; I just have never had any proof until now. Grantaire said that Pierre had nothing to do with it, but it all seemed pretty suspicious to me. What do I do, Combeferre?” Joly was clearly very worried, as he kept running his hands through his hair. At this point, it was beyond repair, and it was really a blessing that Courfeyrac wasn’t here to lament it.

 

Combeferre was polishing his glasses pensively. “I’d say we leave it for now. We don’t know absolutely for sure, and Grantaire denies it. Don’t push him too far right now; we want him to know he can come to us if something does happen. I say we keep an eye on it and monitor the situation and as soon as we see it happen, we get him out.”

 

Joly nodded, and soon they were off talking about their science classes and certain professors at the university, leaving that dark topic behind. Enjolras felt an inexplicable melancholia descend over him. He took his tea and his laptop to his room, curled up in his bed, tea forgotten, and cold beside him. If Combeferre had looked at the Internet history that evening, it would have been stuffed full of sites on domestic violence. Enjolras didn’t finish his paper that night, and he found himself unable to sleep, trying to reconcile the man who had laughed and smoked with him to a person who was trapped in an abusive relationship. Needless to say, it was a long night.

 

The next morning, Enjolras wasn’t surprised to find Combeferre and a hot pot of tea waiting for him when he arrived in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket and overly sleep deprived, a deep jittery feeling in his belly and throat. He collapsed on the kitchen chair and scrubbed his face with his left hand, while blindly reaching for his mug with the right. “What do I do, Ferre?” His voice came out raspy, and he couldn’t bring himself to meet Combeferre’s searching gaze as he fiddled with the mug handle.

 

“Well, _if_ Grantaire is in an abusive relationship, I can’t imagine that Grantaire would be very happy with you knowing, and he’s be even more angry if that changed things between you, if you treated him differently. He wouldn’t want to be a cause, Enjolras. He’s a private man, and you have to respect that.”

 

“I know, Combeferre, I just−I don’t know. I want to help, but I don’t know how. I stayed up all night researching domestic violence and I can’t believe we haven’t started doing anything about this earlier, it’s a huge issue.”

 

Combeferre nodded slowly. “We are doing the best we can for Grantaire. And as to adding domestic violence to the amis, I don’t think it’s a good idea. That could cause Grantaire to panic and pull away completely. We need to be there, and be supportive. Maybe, after we ascertain that Grantaire is safe in whatever way we can, we can add it to our list.”

 

Enjolras nods, despite the fact that he felt the heat of righteous anger flowing through his veins on the part of Grantaire, he knew that Combeferre spoke reasonably. Grantaire’s safety came first and their civil rights work second. That’s what friends did. And after last night, they were in agreement that apparently friends, and Enjolras ignored the sweet thrill that thought brought into his chest. “Thanks, Combeferre.” Combeferre hummed and turned to the paper. “Are you going to tell Courfeyrac?”

 

Combeferre paused, considering the question. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

 

“I think that out of us all, Courfeyrac is the best at handling other people’s emotions. He should know.”

 

Combeferre nodded and pulled out a pen to start the Sudoku. Enjolras knew a dismissal when he saw one, and he made a dignified exit, dragging his blanket behind him, and went to go finish that paper, where he could go channel his righteous anger somewhere it was wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


	7. We Are Headed North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire hates the holidays, but the amis don't hate Cosette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song "I And Love And You" by the Avett Brothers.

The seasons were approaching the dead of winter, and with that came Christmas, a holiday that always made Grantaire melancholy. As a child, he had watched Christmas movie after Christmas movie, wondering if people really had such magical lives. Grantaire only ever got a few dollars from his mother and a string of curses from his father. With Pierre, Christmas felt like a stilted way in which Grantaire would become more indebted to Pierre because he could afford more expensive gifts than Grantaire, and none of it really seemed like those quiet, picture-perfect moments that was constant in holiday portrayals.

 

Despite this history of disappointing Christmas’, Grantaire still felt a yearning in his heart during this season that he couldn’t quite quash, no matter how much he tried to brush off the whirling snow and street buskers playing lively Christmas tunes. The coffee shop constantly smelled of peppermint and was filled to the brim with smiling families, almost as if those Christmas movies had come to life in front of him, mocking him.

 

Cosette didn’t help, as she insisted on wearing a different Christmas sweater every shift, each uglier than the last. She teased Grantaire mercilessly for his futile struggle against the Christmas cheer. She had taken to calling him the Grinch, and had only once managed to get him to wear a Santa hat the whole shift because she said she’d take him out after work, drinks on her. Apparently expending that amount of money and time on Grantaire was worth seeing him in a Santa hat for a few hours.

 

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Cosette asked during a lull one morning, wiping down the counters near the cash as Grantaire struggled to tie the trash bags closed.

 

Grantaire paused to look at her, trying to figure out if this was leading anywhere. “Usually Pierre plans something. I go along with it. I’m not very particular to Christmas, as you may have noticed. Besides, we don’t have families to go back to, so we usually do something just the two of us.”

 

Cosette gave him a small smile. “You’re not going to do anything with your friends? What about the nice doctor that came in on a white horse the other week? He seemed nice.”

 

Grantaire snorted in amusement. Cosette hadn’t let that incident go, and had become increasingly curious about Grantaire’s social life. Grantaire was usually wary about co-workers poking into his life for obvious reasons. But he knew he’d already lost this battle. Once Cosette put her mind to something, it was a lot easier to just go along with it. She reminded him a lot of the other amis, actually. Which is why he was still hesitant to introduce them. They wouldn’t stay acquaintances; they would definitely hit it off. And what Grantaire didn’t need was for a social justice group to find out he was in a less-than-healthy relationship. He wasn’t about to be the poster child against domestic violence or the friend that they could “save.” He was perfectly fine without that sort of chaos staying far away from his already confusing life.

 

“They are having a party before Christmas. I might go. Depends on Pierre, again.” Grantaire deflected.

 

“What does that mean?” Cosette asked, forgetting the counter completely and focusing on Grantaire. He shifted uncomfortably.

 

“He’s just not the biggest fan of them. He’s only ever met Joly, the one who came in last time. And his boyfriend Bossuet.”

 

“He doesn’t like them?”

 

“It’s not that he doesn’t like them, he just isn’t interested in them.” Grantaire bent over to struggle with the trash bag again so that she couldn’t see his face. Evasion tactics were his forte; he had a spent a lifetime honing them. He should consider putting that on his resume, but very few jobs actually wanted such a specialized skill set.

 

“So you’d go by yourself?” Cosette’s voice sounded closer, and Grantaire looked up to find that she’d walked around the counter to help him with the plastic bag. Damn, she was good though.

 

“Probably.” Grantaire shrugged, heaving the bag out of the can easily with her help.

 

“Good. Tell him it’s an employee party and then we’ll go together.”

 

Grantaire dropped the bag back into the trash bin in surprise. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if he wants to come? What if he finds out I’m lying?”

 

“Why are you so worried about it? Is he the one that _hit_ you?” At the second question, Cosette’s voice lowered considerably, but Grantaire still looked around at the sparsely populated café in horror to make sure no one overheard.

 

“That is none of your business,” he snapped, yanking the trash bag out of the can and Cosette’s hands and stalking towards the door to throw it out. Cosette ended up getting her way, through a series of events that are still jumbled in his mind. Such was Cosette’s charm.

  

The night of the party came all at once. Grantaire was shocked when Cosette asked him at work where they should meet tomorrow for the party, though this was starting to become a regular feeling. He didn’t always have a lot of social events in his calendar, so they always surprised him. Cosette also wanted to know what she should wear, and if she should bring anything. Typical Cosette behavior.

 

Nevertheless, her words startled him, putting a knot in his stomach that he had been previously ignoring studiously. The thing was, while Grantaire attended meetings somewhat frequently, parties were a whole different ambience. He remembered how the last one ended, and felt that parties with the Amis kind of meant he was an ami now. Which was slightly terrifying. But also, he would no longer be the most recent friend there if he brought Cosette with him. He hoped most of the attention that would be focused on him would be deflected on to her.

 

The following night, Grantaire met Cosette at the metro stop near his apartment, not daring to have her over at the apartment, even though Pierre was gone. He had always been suspicious of Grantaire around women, almost more so than men, since Grantaire was bisexual. He was always worried that Grantaire would decide to date a girl if he got tired of dick, though Grantaire tried explaining several times that’s not how bisexuality works. Never to any avail, however, so eventually Grantaire just dropped it.

 

They met at the metro station and headed down to the trains together. Cosette was wearing mistletoe earrings and a headband with reindeer antlers, and yet managed to somehow not look ridiculous. How Cosette existed was a mystery to Grantaire. She also had a paper bag containing Tupperware. “Homemade cookies and wine,” she said, as he eyed the bag curiously once they’d safely boarded a train.

 

“God, they’re going to kick me out in favor of you, I already know it,” Grantaire groaned, bemoaning once more the fact that Cosette was about to meet the amis and that would probably mean the end of Grantaire’s sanity.

 

“You know as well as I do that we’re a package deal, R. They either take us both, or the don’t get either of these two fine pieces of ass.”

 

“Stop objectifying me Cosette! You know I’m a hell of a lot more than my ass. I have my biceps as well.”

 

Cosette made an appreciative sound and adopted a thoughtful frown. “Yes, we do get more tips on the days you wear t-shirts. But I always liked your calves. Although your dazzling intellect and sense of humor have definitely won me over.”

 

“Not to mention my irresistible charm and modesty,” Grantaire added, grinning purposefully wide at her, aware that it made him look ridiculous. They got off a few stops later, probably to the relief of the old lady they’d been standing in front of while talking about their hot bodies. She had looked mildly horrified. But very interested. “That’s probably the most action she’s seen in years,” Grantaire whispered as they exited the train and Cosette glanced at her large curly hair and shedding poodle. Cosette giggled, but slapped his arm guiltily.

 

They exited the metro station. The party was at Joly and Bossuet’s again, because it was apparently at a pretty central location, and also because that way if Bossuet broke anything, the odds were statistically higher that it wouldn’t belong to someone else. “Do you think they’ll like me?” Cosette asked, as they ascended the creaky narrow wooden stairs leading to the apartment.

 

Grantaire threw his arm over her shoulder at the landing and squeezed before knocking. “Package deal, remember?” he said. He knew he didn’t normally mix coworkers and friends, but he saw Cosette every day, and felt that she knew him better than most of the amis. Plus, she knew about Pierre, and it was kind of a relief not having to have his defenses up all the time around her. And guessing from her reaction to the whole abuse thing, she might be the person who understood him best, which was a strange realization.

 

The door swung open wide, hitting the wall with the enthusiasm of Bahorel’s thrust. “Grantaire!” he exclaimed and swept him into a bro hug that lasted a good minute and included twirling Grantaire until his feet came off the floor. He put Grantaire down, and noticed Cosette, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. “And you must be Colette,” Bahorel said, extending his hand.

 

“It’s Cosette, and I’ll take the bro hug if you don’t mind,” she said, handing her bag to Grantaire.

 

“I like this one,” Bahorel said admiringly to Grantaire before picking her up and twirling her. Cosette did ballerina arms, while Grantaire looked on in horror. Then Bahorel went and introduced her to the room, to the resounding cheers of the group, leaving Grantaire with the cookies and wine, which he went to go put in the kitchen. He found Enjolras holed up in the bright kitchen, contemplating the spread of foods.

 

“Hey,” he said in greeting, setting the bag on the table. Enjolras started and looked up, his face breaking into a nervous smile when he saw Grantaire. Grantaire pretended that the fact that he made Enjolras nervous didn’t make him giddy. _You’re just friends, you can never be more_ , he reminded himself.

 

“Hey, yourself,” Enjolras said back. “Weren’t you supposed to bring a friend?”

 

“Yeah, she’s out there charming everyone. I bet she already has everyone eating out of her hand. I’m just unpacking the things she brought. You may not have gotten the memo that she isn’t technically my friend, I would classify our relationship more as Overlord-and-Manservant, but I’m sure your group of radicals would frown on that sort of thing.”

 

Enjolras chuckled and poured himself a glass of wine, and then without hesitation, another one for Grantaire. “I think she’s good for you. She obviously makes you happy, and you must trust her a lot in order to bring her to meet us loons.”

 

“I only did so to equalize our Overlord-and-Manservant relationship. I was hoping you could convince her to give up her feudal ways and join the Third Estate.”

 

Enjolras smiled and raised his wine glass in a toast. “Here’s to hope and overcoming Overlord-and-Master relationships,” he said, knocking his glass against Grantaire’s before taking a sip.

 

“Here, here.” Grantaire agreed, choosing to not agonize over if there was a double meaning to the choice of the word hope. He knew there wasn’t. He examined the spread before them: bread, chocolate, cheese, fruit, popcorn, and all sorts of finger foods. “I should probably just stay in here the rest of the night,” Grantaire commented. “I could gorge myself and not have to show face. No one would even know that Cosette came with me.”

 

“Too late for that, I think,” Enjolras said, indicating a banner in Jehan’s cursive reading WELCOME GRANTAIRE’S FRIEND, hanging on the cupboards of the kitchen. It was touchingly sweet. Obviously, they’d all forgotten her name, but had gone out of their way to make her feel welcome, and that was what really mattered.

 

“That is actually really adorable. I can’t even bring myself to be mad,” Grantaire stated.

 

“That is Jehan’s charm,” Enjolras said dryly, his nimble fingers turning the stem of his wine glass this way and that, watching Grantaire from under his eyelashes. Grantaire had the feeling he was being examined. But he shrugged it off. He was reading too much into things.

 

“Speaking of Jehan, I should go thank him for the banner. You know where he is?”

 

“Probably being charmed by Cosette,” Enjolras smirked, popping a small square of cheese in his mouth. Grantaire tried not to melt on the spot; Enjolras smirking was doing all sorts of things to him.

 

“Your wit, as ever, astounds me. You coming out, or are you going to hide away in here like I was going to?” Grantaire asked, somehow reluctant to leave this easy banter with Enjolras behind, despite his eagerness to see sweet Jehan again.

 

“I’ll be out soon. I want to try one of your Overlord’s cookies.”

 

Grantaire left the kitchen grinning like an idiot. Cosette saw him from across the room, and raised an eyebrow before excusing herself to the kitchen and Grantaire groaned inwardly. Cosette already knew too much. If she found out about Grantaire’s silly crush, that would be all of his major life secrets laid bare before her. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that. But he’d deal with it later. First, he had a Jehan to thank.

 

“Dude, you have the best friends,” Courfeyrac said loudly into Grantaire’s ear as he slung an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder.

 

“You’re just saying that because you love yourself and you love to love on yourself,” Grantaire scoffed, but grinned away at Courfeyrac’s evident intoxication.

 

“No, I really really really like Cosette. She’s awesome.” Courfeyrac was grinning as usual, and had pulled off of Grantaire to drape himself on the couch, ending up mostly on Combeferre, which Grantaire was pretty certain was no accident. Combeferre’s glasses were slightly askew and he had some hair sticking up at the back. It was the most disheveled Grantaire had ever seen Combeferre and it was disorienting. It seems like Courfeyrac had managed to get some alcohol into Combeferre’s system for once.

 

“Hello, Combeferre.”

 

Combeferre mumbled some response, but Grantaire couldn’t make it out. He glanced quizzically at Courfeyrac. “He had an exam today. Hasn’t slept in a week.”

 

“I thought he was drunk,” Grantaire snorted.

 

“Nope. Just good old sleep deprivation.” Courfeyrac grinned. “So, Cosette. She sure is something.”

 

“Yeah. They’ll name a hurricane after her soon,” Grantaire said, swirling his wine glass around so he didn’t have to meet Courfeyrac’s curious gaze.

 

“I’m pretty sure she and Marius hit it off. He was red as a tomato.”

 

“I thought he was always like that.” Grantaire said automatically.

 

“Oh, well, you should listen to Courfeyrac, he would know the signs of Marius’ crush levels,” Jehan said, sliding next to Grantaire on the couch and snuggling up close to him.

 

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked, glancing quizzically.

 

“Oh, Courfeyrac and Marius dated. Even lived together for a while,” Jehan said nonchalantly. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac, who just winked proudly.

 

“Poor kid didn’t know how bi he was till he met me. And I am irresistible.”  

 

“Honestly, I didn’t see that one coming,” Grantaire commented, tangling his hand in Jehan’s hair.

 

“No one did, really. But it’s okay. We managed to stay friends after. That’s what matters.”

 

“Courfeyrac isn’t good at long-term romantic relationships, so he has practice,” Combeferre added. From anyone else, it would have sounded barbed, but Combeferre stated it matter-of-factly. Courfeyrac elbowed his side anyway.

 

“Maybe I just haven’t found the right person yet,” Courfeyrac added, twisting to look at Combeferre for a long moment.

 

“Maybe not,” Combeferre muttered softly, swaying forward slightly, before jumping back and clearing his throat. Grantaire was pretty sure he’d never seen people repress their feelings so hard. He turned to to Jehan, since he didn’t really know how to handle Courfeyrac’s confused expression.

 

“Thanks for the sign. It really means a lot to me that you guys have been so welcoming not only to Cosette, but to me.”

 

Jehan laughed and kissed his cheek. “We’re friends not a freaking welcoming committee.”

 

“Don’t tell Cosette, or she might not bring any more cookies,” Courfeyrac broke in. “What?” he said defensively when Grantaire glared at him. “They were really good!”

 

Grantaire sighs, his eyes catching on Enjolras and Cosette leaving the kitchen. She has her arms slung around his shoulder, and he looks surprised, but happy. His eyes find Grantaire’s and hold them for a beat too long, before wandering down to Cosette when she started speaking too him. Grantaire wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, his throat tight. So much for ignoring his crush.

 

Eponine arrives about half an hour later and finds Grantaire immediately, handing him a drink. “Bless you,” he said, pulling her into a hug.

 

“That was your Christmas present.”

 

“What, the drink?” Grantaire asked.

 

“No, the hug. She doesn’t do hugs,” supplied Jehan helpfully. Eponine glared at Jehan, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.

 

“Come on, I need a smoke,” Grantaire said, pulling her on to the balcony. He avoids the spot that he and Enjolras sat last time he was on this balcony, and offers a cigarette to Eponine before lighting up.

 

“I should really quit,” Eponine said after a few puffs.

 

“I know, me too. Pierre hates when I smoke.”

 

“Pierre?” Eponine asked, flicking ash from her cigarette nonchalantly.

 

“My boyfriend.” Eponine didn’t respond, watching the smoke curl between them pensively. “We’ve been dating almost three years,” Grantaire added to fill the silence.

 

“I see,” Eponine paused to take another drag from her fast-dwindling cigarette. “So, I have heard rave reviews about this friend of yours.” Grantaire was glad of the change of the conversation. He guessed Eponine was suspicious, but she didn't push, and that was a relief. 

 

“I swear; the amount of comments I’ve gotten about Cosette. It’s a good thing I introduced her instead of her introducing me. I think I would have fell flat.”

 

“You know, I think you could Courfeyrac a run for his money for this year’s Drama Queen contest.”

 

“Rude.” Grantaire said, flicking ash at her. Eponine made a face at him. “Yeah, I know I just proved your point.”

 

“It’s just that we are a pretty tight-knit group. It’s great to have new additions. Some fresh air. And it takes some of the pressure off the rest of us because Enjolras is enthusiastic about the new member.” Grantaire laughed, and Eponine smirked.

 

“I guess that means I’ll be back in Enjolras’ good books, having been the person who brought this new addition?”

 

Eponine blew smoke in his direction. “Were you even in his good books to start with?”

 

“Good point.” Grantaire acquiesced, tipping his head back against the rough wall, eyeing the pale moon.

 

“Hey, you ok?” Eponine looked concerned, and Grantaire ignored the etchings of worry on her face because he could already feel his stomach plummeting.

 

“People have been asking me that a lot lately,” Grantaire stubbing out his cigarette on the wall, avoiding Eponine’s eyes.

 

“What do you tell them?” Grantaire could tell that Eponine wasn't the type to push where she wasn't wanted, which is probably why he went for a sincere answer. 

 

“I usually shrug them off. The holidays aren’t particularly the most wonderful time of the year.”

 

Eponine huffed. “I feel you there, R.” Grantaire didn't really feel like getting into this conversation now. He might break down if one more person asked him if he was okay. His guard was getting paper thin, and these days he sometimes felt like a house of cards. One nudge would send him toppling into the darkness that he didn't care to contemplate much. 

 

“Anyway, we should probably head back in. People will accuse me of being antisocial and Cosette will no doubt be blackmailing someone or telling embarrassing work stories about me.”

 

“I _have_ to meet this girl. Sounds like my kind of person, honestly.”

 

“I’m terrified,” Grantaire deadpanned, stumbling when Eponine rammed her shoulder into his.

 

They headed back into the warmth, feeling rushing back to their cheeks and rubbing their hands vigorously. The scene was like a picture. All of Grantaire’s friends spread across the room, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Combeferre being entertained by Bossuet’s latest escapades. Joly and Musichetta getting to know each other over a glass of wine, Bahorel and Feuilly giggling in the corner over some Youtube video, and Enjolras and Cosette’s voices carrying from the kitchen. Grantaire’s heart clenched as he heard Enjolras’ laugh ring out. He didn’t laugh much around Grantaire. Not a laugh like that. He’s have to bring Cosette around more often. And no, he was _not_ jealous that Cosette had managed to get him to laugh the first time they’d met.

 

Enjolras and Cosette emerge from the kitchen, trailed by an adoring Marius. Enjolras' smile is blinding, and there is something tight in Grantaire’s chest. It disappears in the next moment when Cosette catches sight of Grantaire and Eponine. Her eyes widen, and her wine glass falls through her fingers, the crash resounding for what seems like eternity. Time is suspended as Enjolras immediately ushers her to a chair, Eponine rushes to Cosette’s side, and Joly and Musichetta are cleaning up the spill. The cozy holiday atmosphere evaporated just as Grantaire had been getting comfortable with it. He remained stunned in his spot, watching those around him. What the fuck had happened?

 

In a minute the chaos had died down and the room fell silent. “Anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Bahorel asked, his phone put away, a guarded expression on his face.

 

“We know each other.” Eponine supplied, in her typical evasive manner.

 

“I think we all gathered that,” Courfeyrac chimed in.  “Why didn’t we know that beforehand though? We’d have used plastic cups.”

 

Courfeyrac’s humor fell flat, and Cosette slowly raised her head. “Because we knew each other back when we were both in the foster system.”

 

“Someone should have warned me that was a bad time to tell a joke,” Courfeyrac mumbled.

 

“To be fair, it’s usually a bad time for your jokes,” Combeferre muttered back to him. Both of them went ignored by the rest of the group.

 

Grantaire met Enjolras’ eyes, and he shrugged. He’d had no idea Cosette was in foster care. Regardless of his prior knowledge or not, he was sure Enjolras would form some sort of plan to deal with this situation. 

  

* * *

 

The next hour passed in a blur. Cosette and Eponine left pretty quickly to go to Cosette’s and spend some time talking. After they left, the evening had a somber note, and most people dispersed quickly. Grantaire lingered back, an uncertain air about him.

 

“Did you know?” Enjolras asked, as Grantaire quietly packed up Cosette’s Tupperware. His head was bent, his curls tumbling in his eyes. Enjolras noted they looked especially silky in the soft light of the kitchen.

 

“About what? That she knew Eponine or was in the foster system?”  There wasn’t any venom in his tone, just a weariness. He didn’t look up from what he was doing, and Enjolras tried to ignore the feeling that Grantaire was boxing him out.

 

He shrugged. “Either.”

 

Grantaire paused, his hands hovering over the box, before he finally looked up at Enjolras. His eyes were a piercing blue, he noted. “I had no idea,” he said quietly. “I suspected that there was something not so great in her childhood, but that could be any kind of thing, you know?”

 

Enjolras nodded, his mind circling back to the possibility that Grantaire was in an abusive relationship. He was aware of that feeling of helplessness that came with shocking discoveries about people’s pasts. Not that he could come right out and say that. “You doing ok?”

 

“I will be,” Grantaire said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Enjolras.

 

“You know we are here for you, right? I know we’ve had our differences, but you are my friend, Grantaire. I want you to know that all of us here care about you.” _I care about you_.

 

Grantaire softened, his mouth curving into a slight smile, and he glanced down at the box before him, then back up. If Enjolras didn’t know better, he almost looked shy. “I know. It’s nothing to worry about though.”

 

Enjolras wasn’t so sure, but he let Grantaire leave, watching his figure pull his sweater tighter as he left. His footsteps echoed impossible loud through his mind, and that night when he went to sleep the image of Grantaire’s hands hovering over the table haunted him. He didn’t know why the image left him feeling so hollow, so he shoved it from his mind and thought of the soft smile afforded him instead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Come say hi on [tumblr](http://pucks-and-pies.tumblr.com) or on my [Les Mis blog](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com). Also, looking for a Beta - if you see anything wrong grammatically or spelling-wise, please let me know!


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